Ring of Fire
by ragna ayanami
Summary: 2nd installment. Sometimes to survive, one must stick together. Unfortunately, not everyone is of the same mind. One desperate group and one cynical marshal must overcome their differences to work together.
1. Old Faces, New Faces

**Note:** So, this is the second installment, which will cover the second season of TWD and a bit of in between 2 and 3. As I've said in the prequel, I will be combining the comics with the TV show. So I suggest you read the comics if you don't want to be confused. And if you've already read them, kudos to you.

Also, I urge you to read the prequel 'I Walk the Line' otherwise you won't understand some things.

I won't be covering the show and comics panel by panel; I will only focus on the parts where Samara is in. If I wrote everything, I would be writing Bible length stories which will not be good for my typing fingers.

Enjoy the second story!

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Rick sighed tiredly.

He and the others had been driving the whole day with nothing in sight. This is all they had been doing for over a week since the CDC exploded—driving around the Atlanta outskirts, trying to find a place to settle. There had been a small museum a few days ago, but it turned out to be unlivable after two days.

They had decided to try their luck east after spotting a state park on the map used for hiking, golf and swimming. It would be perfect. There was shelter, fauna and a lake.

Rick really hoped that this would work out, because he didn't know how long the others would last if it didn't. They had become accustomed to living in one place with accessible water a few feet from them and supplies just a few miles away while he was used to always being on the move, foraging like a vagabond for food and such.

Shane kept egging him on what they should do, and while Lori didn't verbalize it, her eyes told him everything. She was starting to doubt.

People were tired and they were losing hope. After what happened at the CDC, morale was low. Even for him.

They needed some good news, just something to get their spirits up.

And the good news came in the form of a street sign.

**Wiltshire Estates**

**1 kilometer West**

* * *

"I think we've finally found somethin' good."

Rick said as he peered through the iron gate of the Wiltshire Estates. The others were scattered around, also looking through the gate or sitting atop the cars looking over the brick wall.

They had decided to check out the estates. If it was livable then they would abandon their state park plans and remain.

Rick could practically feel the other's joy and relief at the prospect of a roof over their heads and an actual bed. He couldn't lie, he was also feeling it.

"Good? This is perfect!" Lori beamed at him. "We can start a new life here."

Rick smiled warmly at her and squeezed her hand in affection. They could finally stop moving and just take a breath. If everything went alright, this place could turn out to be their new home.

Shane walked towards them and his gaze stayed on their intertwined fingers for a second before sharply moving away. There was no sign on his face that matched the internal conflict he was experiencing.

"We should spread around. Check up some of the houses near the exit before it gets too dark." Shane said as he stopped near Rick, stoically avoiding making eye contact with Lori.

Rick let go of his wife's hand and returned to his duties as unofficial leader of the group. He blatantly ignored the tenseness that rose between Lori and Shane once the latter got close. That was a subject he did _not_ want to dwell on.

He walked a few steps ahead so everyone's attention was on him.

"Everyone, listen up. While it may look good on the outside, we don't know how abandoned this place really is. And it's going to be dark soon, so we need to search the area around the house. At least the first few. Don't go inside the houses."

"Carol and Lori, you stay with the kids in the RV. The others will break off into three groups. Daryl, take Glenn and Shane, you take Dale. T-Dog, you're with me. Stay sharp everyone and no guns unless necessary."

* * *

As the convoy stopped outside of the estates, a form stirred from inside the second story bedroom of one of the houses.

Having been abruptly awakened from the first decent dream in months, the woman jerked into a sitting. The gun that was loosely curled in her hand was brought eye level and pointed towards the phantom danger. Green eyes never stayed in one place as they inspected the entire room she was in. She found nothing but her furry companion scratching and growling at the window.

The woman rose to her feet with a groan and gazed out the window to see who or what interrupted her slumber.

_Gods, can't I ever catch a break…_

She watched as a convoy consisted of a Winnebago and four cars stopped near the gates, and over a dozen people got out. The woman retrieved her binoculars and started inspecting each person. An older man was driving the RV with an Asian young adult as his co-pilot. Out of the RV exited a blonde woman and a sturdy African-American man. From the last car, a brawny man stepped out, and from the second, a woman with very short hair and a little blonde girl. The beat up truck's driver was a—

The woman grimaced. A redneck.

Unmistakable: torn sleeves, truck, motorcycle, crossbow, dirty countenance.

_Just my fucking luck._

With a spat of disgust, she turned the binocular to the last car and its occupants. A woman, a boy and a man with a sheriff's ha—

Blink.

_No fucking way…_

But as she focused the binoculars to its maximum, it seemed the view in front of her wasn't a lie.

It was _him_. The Kentucky sheriff.

The woman remained frozen until a snort escaped from between her lips, and then another and then a short chuckle. Before she knew it, she was laughing like a madwoman. Immediately her hand covered her mouth, but that didn't stop some muffled snickers from coming out.

This was just _too_ funny. And not haha funny, just shocking funny. Like when you see something so unexpected, you can't believe that it happened right in front of you and you don't know how to respond appropriately to it, so that frenzied titter came out.

She simmered down her laugh to a quiet chortle.

"Well, shit…" Wide pale green eyes turned towards the Collie. "This is the last thing I expected to happen."

The dog wagged his tail happily.

Another snicker broke out.

"And I'm out of vodka."

* * *

The woman watched as the sheriff directed his group in searching the estates closest to the gates.

They didn't attempt to search inside the houses and because of that she stayed where she was. She didn't want to make her presence known yet. Watching them was much more interesting.

Her astonishment settled down and now there was a cool calculating gleam in her eyes. First of all, she couldn't believe that Grimes actually made it out of Atlanta _and_ found his family alive. And then found this location where she was. What were the chances of that happening? One in a million? Ten million? Too much.

A small part of her mused that maybe the small prayer had actually worked. The marshal immediately dismissed it, not believing in such things. This was just a very complicated, spider-like web coincidence. The sheriff had been just _extremely_ lucky.

Second, who were all these people? It was obvious Rick was leading them, but how did he come by them. His wife and son were most likely among the group when he found them, that was the only explanation she could come up with. No way had they been on their own, and then Rick found them, and _then_ found the others. His wife didn't look like someone that had been fighting tooth and nail to survive on her own with a child in tow. She still looked civil, and the boy was healthy enough.

The woman watched the others. The majority of them looked like regular folks, except for the redneck and the muscular white guy. Along with the oldest man in the group, Grimes and the muscular one were the only ones carrying guns. The redneck carried a crossbow which in Samara's opinion was a very good idea. Arrows didn't make deafening booms.

The sheriff, redneck and the brawny guy must be the force of the group.

Considering that the women remained with the vehicles, it probably meant that they were—for a lack of a better word—_women_. The African-American, the old man and the Asian teen didn't look like much of a threat. Maybe the old man since he had a rifle in his hands, but he didn't seem the killer type. And as for the kids…well, they were kids.

The marshal deeply considered her next actions. She had two options: expose herself or leave the estate. She could leave in the night. She had the means to see while they didn't. It would be easy to sneak along the back of the houses and exit through the gate. But what good will that do her? She'll be out in the open again with no transport. Maybe she could steal one of their cars and some of their rations.

…No, she couldn't leave. Not right now.

If she showed herself, then how would the sheriff react, she wondered. He wouldn't open fire, that's for sure. But he wouldn't greet her with a hug either. And the others…they would be cautious. And if the sheriff told them about the motel incident, then she wouldn't blame them for wanting nothing to do with her.

The woman sighed in defeat. She was out of food, water was pretty much extinct, had no vehicle and her body still hadn't recovered.

She was _fucked_.

These people could provide her with those items, the sheriff owed her that much. She already knew what she had to do, but that didn't mean she liked it or that she would do it quietly.

"Do you think we should welcome the sheriff into the neighborhood?" The marshal looked down at the dog at her feet.

The Collie's head cocked to the side.

"You're right. When they get settled in."

* * *

The group split into three small teams to search the estates. Daryl had been paired with Glenn, to his displeasure. It wasn't that he hated the Asian, it was just that he was too skittish for his liking.

In his opinion, staying in this boxed housing neighborhood was a mistake. They needed the light of day to fully search the area, not an hour left until dusk. He would have been more at ease if they had slept in the cars for the night and in the morning started their inspection. But the others had all wanted to sleep in a house, so that was what they were trying to do now.

The duo searched the backyard of a residence when Daryl saw something that made him pause.

—Dog prints.

Crouching low, he inspected the faint tracks in the dirt that lead in the overgrown vegetation that was the backyard. Following them he came upon the bowl remains of the canine which was still fresh. As in a few hours only, not months as it should be.

Daryl looked around for further signs of the dog. He didn't like this. His instincts flared, telling him that something was off.

"What are you doing?" Glenn asked from his place a few feet away from Daryl. He knew from experience to stay out of the hunter's way.

Daryl didn't answer as he kept looking for other tracks. Human, preferably. If there was anyone else alive living here, then they needed to be alert.

Except for the same dog prints here and there, he found nothing to indicate that a human was here.

The hunter was still not placated.

Even if there were no people around, the dog was a danger. If the houses were empty of food and water, then the animal would be desperate. Desperate enough to attack them.

Walkers weren't enough, now they had to beware of dogs.

Rick and T-Dog made the last round around a house.

The estates seemed deserted. No walkers came out from between the houses and no sounds were heard except for the ones they made. The houses seemed in better or worse shape. Some had broken windows; most likely looters had passed through and helped themselves to what was inside.

As shoddy as they were, they were good enough for now.

"Clear." T-Dog finally said.

Rick nodded and they returned to the road to join the others.

"What about you? All clear?" Rick addressed Shane once the man finished his search.

"As far as we can tell. I don't see anythin' anywhere near this area."

Glenn and Daryl approached, the latter's perpetual frown deeper than ever. "There's a dog around."

"What?" Shane asked with eyebrows high.

Icy blue eyes slid towards the deputy with slight hostility. "A dog. The kind you put leashes on, less you want 'em to bite your hand off. You should know how that feels."

Shane glowered at the man. In moments like these, he really wished he could introduce the redneck's face with the butt of his shotgun.

"Alright, if this dog appears then we'll take care of it." Rick took a step between the two men. Tension had been flying high between those two and a fight breaking out again wouldn't help anyone. "I say we grab blankets and crash in one of these houses tonight. The windows on the second floor of this one seem to be fine." He pointed at the one he last inspected. "We should be pretty warm up there. Tomorrow we can start clearin' out the houses and givin' people their own livin' space."

As everyone agreed, Rick nodded determinedly.

"All right, then. Let's round up the others and get settled in."

* * *

Night fell quickly, shrouding the estates in complete darkness. The moon still hadn't showed itself from behind the cluster of clouds.

Daryl and T-Dog had taken the first shift. Daryl was on the ground level patrolling the road while T-Dog was on the roof of the house surveying the entire area.

It was quiet. _Extremely_ quiet.

It put Daryl on edge.

Two hours into his shift was when he heard a faint whine breaking the pervading silence. Crossbow ready, he listened further as the whine increased in volume. Daryl slowly moved towards the sound, mindful of his earlier discovery. He knew that this was the dog that had left the paw prints.

T-Dog, having caught the man's movements, turned on his flashlight to illuminate the path in front of the hunter. What the beam of light revealed surprised him.

—It was a limping dog.

Daryl cautiously approached the seemingly injured dog. He didn't trust it one bit. But as the dog came closer, it didn't show any signs of aggression. It just limped towards him with its head lowered meekly and its tail between its legs. Daryl crouched low and slinked his weapon over his shoulder. He didn't want to scare the mutt away.

"Come here." He said lowly, his Georgia drawl in a deep tenor.

The dog whined again, moving uncertainly.

"That's right, come here." This time it was gentler—at least as gentle as he could get.

As the dog stepped at arm's length, he immediately locked his fingers around its snout and one arm around the torso, trapping it under his arm. The dog started struggling frantically, not pleased with its confinement.

"Stop." Daryl's commanding tone along with the firm shake of its small body made the dog sag boneless. He still kept whimpering, only this time it was more fearful than in false pain.

"Hey man, what's going on?" T-Dog hissed from the roof. Even with the flashlight illuminating the man below, he still couldn't see what was happening since Daryl's form was blocking his sight.

The man in question ignored him as his attention was focused on his canine prisoner. This dog was too healthy to have been living on his own after all these months. There was no food in the house, no edible ones at least. He doubted the other houses were any different. But that didn't say much since dogs ate out of garbage. What did alert Daryl was the fact that the dog was well groomed. He still had that animal odor on him, but nothing very drastic, and his fur wasn't in tangles.

This mutt was being meticulously taken care of.

_Shit. Someone _is_ here._

* * *

As both lookouts were focused on the dog, they didn't notice the dark shape moving inelegantly across the street.

Once she reached the parallel house, the woman leaned against the wall and breathed in deeply. The pain shooting up her spine from the jog made her see multicolored spots in front of her eyes. With each passing day it became harder and harder to do much of any activity. With a grit of her teeth, she moved to the backyard and stayed close to the wall, walking as silently as possible until she reached the patio door of the intended house. With steady fingers she turned the knob, wary of it squeaking. She had seen some of the group come out the back way and knew that it was open.

The woman stepped inside and carefully walked along the empty kitchen. Once in the hallway, she spotted one of the group sleeping on the living room couch. It was the brawny man. He was snoring evenly, sign of deep sleep. There was a shotgun leaning on the side of the couch. The marshal continued on up the stairs to the second story. There were three rooms upstairs. The Grimes family must be in the master bedroom.

She knew her way around because every last building in the Wiltshire Estates was built the same. They were cookie-cutter houses and such, it was easy to maneuver inside.

At the top of the stairs she headed left, the master being that way. She wasn't wrong in her assumption because when she opened the door that was where she found him.

A smirk spread over her lips.

She walked carefully towards the sheriff's side of the bed and picked up the Colt Python from the nightstand. It seems the sheriff hadn't parted with it yet.

The sight of Grimes sleeping so peacefully among his family almost made her abandon her mission. He was probably dead tired and giving him a scare right now would ruin the rest of his night.

Sadly, that did not deter the woman from her objective. It only enforced it.

She tapped him on the shoulder with his gun, but only got a grunt as a response. Moving the silver barrel to his temple, she pressed against it with more force. That got a real reaction out of him.

Blue eyes popped open and it only took a second for him to realize that someone was standing over him. The darkness was too thick for him to see the person's features, but he did see a pair of goggles where the eyes should be. He knew immediately that this person wasn't part of the group.

—There was a stranger standing over him with a gun pressed to his temple.

His eyes widened in panic, his system going into a frenzy. When his arm shot out in reflex, his wrist was caught in a vice-like grip.

"Now now, you don't want to wake up your family, do you sheriff?"

That cut off the shout that had been seconds away from exploding into the room. Rick's alarmed expression fell and contorted into one of dumbfounded shock.

_That voice…_Even in a whisper, he still recognized that voice. Had been in a similar position with the owner of that voice not three weeks ago.

"I'm going to let go. Don't shout or punch me."

Her fingers left his wrist and she stepped back to give the sheriff his space. A quick glance at his family told her that they hadn't been disturbed from their slumber. They were deep sleepers.

The sheriff watched the figure with stupefaction. He didn't understand how this could be possible.

"Samara?"

A toothy smirk.

"Hello, sheriff. Long time no see."

* * *

Rick was still experiencing a sort of shell-shock as he stared at the marshal's form over him. He couldn't understand how she was here, at this time, in this room of all places. For a moment, he thought he was still asleep. Maybe this was all a dream…or a nightmare, depending on what would happen next.

Instead of asking her what she was doing here, the only thing he could utter was—

"Would it have killed you to wait till morning for this?"

Even if he couldn't see her smirk, he could feel it.

"As much as I would like to argue, shouldn't we do this where there's no chance for your family to wake up screaming their pretty little heads off?"

Rick turned towards his family, having forgotten that they were with him when Samara revealed herself. They were sleeping so serenely he couldn't spoil their sleep just because Samara decided to ruin his.

With a frustrated breath, he threw the cover off him and slid off the bed. Just then, a knock disturbed their reunion. Both turned towards the door, one with growing alarm of whoever was on the other side finding a stranger in here and creating a panic, the other with detached amusement to their situation.

"Grimes."

It was Daryl.

Rick took his Colt out of her hand and signaled her to stay put and not make a sound. She nodded and stepped back towards the wall to lean on. Before Rick could walk towards the door, Samara whispered.

"By the way, sheriff…Nice boxers."

Rick frowned and looked down at himself. Indeed, he was only in his T-shirt and underwear. With a sigh, he grabbed his pants and slid them on. The gun went at the back of his pants.

With one last frown at Samara, Rick opened the door and stepped out of the room. Daryl was in the corridor, crossbow over his shoulder and a camp lantern in his hand. He seemed agitated as he kept glancing down the stairs.

"Daryl, what is it?"

Daryl's narrowed eyes slid over to him. "I found the dog."

Alistair. Without a doubt. It seems Samara was still using him as a decoy.

"Is it still alive?" Lord, he hoped so. He didn't know if Samara would raise hell from behind the door if she heard that her canine companion was dead.

"Yeah. Locked it in the basement." He shifted again and his head turned towards the front door. "Someone's here, Grimes. The dog is too well taken care of to be on its own."

Yes, someone _was_ here. Just a wall over. "Have you seen anyone?"

He shook his head.

"Then, we'll deal with this in the mornin'. There's nothin' we can do right now."

Daryl's perpetual frown deepened at the dismissive remark. "Look, we don't know how many people are out there. If they haven't showed themselves while we were searchin' the area, then they're probably waitin' for us to let our guard down."

"Everything's _fine_, Daryl. Go back to your shift. I'll join you in a few minutes."

Daryl paused. The sheriff wasn't concerned at all. And not in an 'ignorance of possible dangers' sort of way, but in a knowing way. He knew something everyone else didn't.

Blue eyes slid toward the master bedroom. At first, he thought he heard whispers inside the room and just dismissed it as being his wife. When Grimes opened the door, Daryl saw that the rest of his family was fast asleep.

"Who were you talkin' to?"

"Lori."

"You wife's asleep."

"Daryl, just…Give me a few minutes."

Daryl stood there unmoving. He might not like this, but he complied with the group's leader. The man had that resolute look in his eyes, the one you couldn't deter him from. Grimes wouldn't tell him anything right now.

With one last look, the hunter turned on his heel and descended the stairs.

Rick closed his eyes in tiredness. Could this night get any worse…?

Once Daryl exited the house, Samara opened the bedroom door and joined him.

"He wasn't happy."

"No, he wasn't…" He turned to her. "Did you hear everythin'?"

"Yeah. It seems Alistair is still alive." She said casually. Rick really didn't know how that dog hadn't developed PTSD by now.

He looked towards the bathroom at the end of the hall. It would do.

"Come on, we need to talk."

He took the lead and Samara followed. The marshal entered first. The bathroom had a small window that illuminated the room just enough to see each other's form. Samara took a seat on the closed-lit toilet. Closing the door gently behind him, he immediately turned on her, angry beyond belief.

"What the hell were you thinkin'?! Sneakin' in here in the middle of the night. Do you realize the panic you could have created?"

"I was thinking of surprising you." She said pleasantly, but to Rick it sounded condescending. "And yes, I realize that all this could have gone tits up, but it didn't."

In that moment he felt all that adrenaline since waking up just drain from his body. The sheriff sagged against the sink with his hands covering his face. Really, this was all too much. He just wanted a good night's rest, nothing else.

Samara leaned against the filter of the toilet and waited until the sheriff retained his composure.

His hands left his face and he addressed the woman, his voice back to its normal calm Kentucky drawl. "You are seriously the most frustratin' person I've ever met."

"Thank you."

_Don't start._

"Samara…_how_ are you here?"

"Well sheriff, I could ask you the same thing. But to answer your question, I have been here for over two days. You and your group are, in fact, intruding on _my_ territory."

"Your territory…" Only she could think like that on an estate with so many houses. "Why didn't you come out when we were searchin' the area?"

"I wanted to see what I was up against. You have quite the group here, sheriff." She then took the goggles off and ruffled her hair, before addressing him again. Whatever cynicism or amusement she had was gone and replaced with sober curiosity. "How the hell did you escape Atlanta, Grimes?"

Rick recounted the event with the tank and horde of walkers eating the horse, Glenn finding him and helping him out. The others and the altercation with Merle which led to him cuffing the violent man to the roof of a building, him and Glenn wearing undead parts and walking through a herd to reach a van. Rain challenging them, their escape with the van and leaving the redneck behind. And finally, finding his family safe in the Atlanta camp.

Samara listened to all this with a blank face. When he finished, she let out an astounded chortle. "Sheriff, you have got to be one of the luckiest sons of bitches I've ever met."

Rick smiled faintly. "I guess you could see it that way."

"By the way, did you see that helicopter?"

His eyes widened. "So it was real…" _I knew I wasn't imagining it._ "Was it military?"

She shook her head. "Civilian. Why did you leave the camp? Assuming that's what you did."

"Walkers overwhelmed it."

There was that word again. "Is that what you call the undead now?"

"The others called them that. It stuck." Personally, he didn't care what they were called. Undead was undead. "We left for the CDC after."

"No shit…" She leaned forward, her curiosity sparking. "Did you get in?"

He nodded. "Met a scientist there, Jenner. He was the only one left, the others…they opted out."

Samara didn't care about a suicide rash, what was important was—"Is there a cure?"

"No." Rick's eyes lowered dejectedly. "The French came close to somethin' but communications went down. Jenner lost contact with everyone on the outside."

Samara hung her head and leaned back against the filter, her shoulders sagging. Even though she knew there was little to no chances of the world ever righting itself, it was final now. There was nothing to look forward to anymore.

"The CDC was on its last leg; the power was runnin' out. Jenner tried to lock us all in. To spare us the pain, he said." Rick let out a dry grunt. The terror he felt of being locked in the CDC along with his family as it was about to blow sky high was more intense than any group of walkers. "We lost a woman there, Jacqui."

"We've been on the road since…"

Silence encompassed the small bathroom. Both deep in their thoughts. It was defeat they were feeling. Knowing that this was all that was going to be from now on. Running and hiding from the walkers until they got bit or killed some other way.

—It wasn't fair.

"We're still here." Rick broke the silence. "That has to count for something." He didn't know who he was trying to placate, him or her. Maybe both.

"Hmmm…" Samara stirred and raised her head. "But for how long?"

She rose from the toilet on heavy legs. "I'm going back to my house."

"Are you alright?" He watched her closely. He still could remember vividly that night at the motel, how she looked at the fire.

"Don't worry; I won't put a bullet through my head. That would only be a waste…I just have a lot to think about."

He placed his hand on her shoulder in attempted comfort, but that only made the marshal stiffen. She looked at his appendage as if it offended her. An awkward atmosphere formed between them, and the sheriff took his hand off.

He should have known better.

"Right." He cleared his throat. "I'll show you where Alistair is." He opened the door and stepped out.

Samara placed the goggles over her eyes and followed the sheriff.

"Which house are you stayin' in?"

"Two houses down on the right."

They both quietly descended the stairs. At the ground level, Shane was still on the couch, not having moved one inch. There was a door beneath the stairs that lead to the basement. Rick opened it and not a second later Alistair ran out.

The dog pawed at its master, happy that he was out of the dark, dank basement. When he noticed Rick, he practically attacked the man's legs. Samara watched with faint amusement as the dog kept circling around the man, jumping on his lower half and trying to lick his hands.

"Glad to see you too, Alistair." Rick whispered after finally managing to calm the dog down. He wiped his fingers of the dog saliva on his pant leg. "Hope Samara hasn't worked you to the bone."

"He doesn't get to complain." Samara moved towards the back exit with Alistair.

Once outside, Rick stopped at the entry. The moon had finally come out and he could see Samara more clearly. "We're goin' to check the rest of the area in the mornin'. You wanna join us?"

"Sure. It's not like I have anything better to do." She tipped her chin towards the house. "Do they know about me?"

"I told them that you're the one that brought me to Atlanta."

Samara paused.

Rick leaned against the entrance wall. "I left out _some_ aspects of our journey."

She knew instantly what exactly those aspects were. The motel.

"Good call." She stepped away. "Do me a favor sheriff; make sure that redneck doesn't put an arrow in me when I cross the street."

* * *

Daryl kept glancing at the door, tensely waiting for Grimes. The man was taking too long and he didn't like being kept in the dark. T-Dog had gone inside a few minutes ago, the sign of him ending his shift.

The hunter turned towards the house once he heard the door creak open. Before the sheriff could reach him, Daryl caught movement up ahead on the street and raised his crossbow. The moon had graciously showed herself during the space he left the house and now, so he had better view of the area. There were two forms crossing the street leisurely, a human and the not-quite-limping dog that he locked in the basement.

_Son of a bitch…_

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a hand gripped the weapon and pushed it down.

"Don't shoot."

Daryl wretched his crossbow away from the sheriff, annoyed at his actions.

"Who the hell is that?!" He whispered vehemently as the figures disappeared between two houses.

Rick massaged his brow. Daryl hadn't heard about Samara since he hadn't been in the camp when he recounted to the others about the time since waking up from his coma and arriving in Atlanta.

"I guess I have some things to tell you."

* * *

**Foot Note:** This marks the end of the first chapter in 'Ring of Fire'.

I will be updating once a week. I hope that this time I'll keep to my word instead of uploading everything in the span of 3 days.


	2. Neighborhood Watch

**Note: **Daryl being Daryl, he'll let slip some ethnic slurs. It's going to happen in later chapters also. So anyone reading, don't get offended.

To **NRIASB** – Thank you, you are my first reviewer ever and the first fav/follower of this story! You get the metaphorical cookie jar. As for the word _through _I understand it's an informal spelling of _through_, so it's not really a mistake.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

At the crack of dawn, Samara seated herself on the front porch stairs of her house. Alistair was at her feet, munching on an old bone he had found in the pantry. After her talk with the sheriff, Samara hadn't been able to shut her eyes for even ten minutes. The man's words kept circling around in her head like a broken record.

_There is no cure._

At least not in America. This Jenner may have lost contact with the other continents but that didn't mean there still wasn't some scientist hunched over his research somewhere. There had to be. But even if there was, how long would it take for it to reach the other side of the globe. Months, years…decades? One thing for sure was that she probably will see no sign of a cure during the remainder of her possibly short life.

With a groan she leaned back, elbows resting on top of the stairs. Once the edge of the wooden planks made contact with her lower back, a throb of pain spread throughout her body. Even after three days she still felt a strong amount of pain and her movements were still too sluggish for her liking. If she had painkillers or at least a bag of ice it would have been so much better. But she didn't so she had to make do with what was at hand…which was nothing.

Samara looked over yonder at the lookouts. Somewhere in the night they changed, the old man was now atop the roof and the redneck came out again only after two hours of Grimes replacing him. He looked as restless as she felt. His head kept venturing to where she was ever since she came out of the house, but he never once attempted to get closer. The old man was the same; his binoculars always seemed to find her.

The marshal waited for Grimes to come after her. She wasn't about to just waltz in there despite her escapade last night. She didn't think the redneck would keep his finger from pulling the trigger.

Not a few minutes later the man in question exited the house, full sheriff gear on, and once he saw her, he headed towards her. Samara watched him as he got closer and once in range, the man froze. His eyes remained glued to her face. She couldn't blame him, she looked like hell. Her face was littered with cuts and her forehead had a deep gash.

When his legs finally unfroze, he approached her carefully. Alistair's tail started wagging, but he didn't move from his bone. Rick leaned over and ruffled the Collie's fur as he stopped at the foot of the stairs.

"What happened to you?"

"Lord of the flies, that's what happened."

His frown deepened.

"Some teenagers ran me off the road after I shot one of their group three days ago. I _thought_ that he was going to shoot me." When she saw that shotgun pointed in her direction, she didn't think she just reacted. "Fact was, he was scared shitless of all the guns strapped to my body. The others didn't take too kindly to my actions and gave chase. One of them got lucky and perforated the back tire of the Cherokee with a shotgun."

Samara brought a hand to her forehead and gently prodded the cut. It still stung like a bitch.

"At the speed I was going I lost control of the car and rammed it into a tree. Blacked out once I hit the airbag. I think Alistair lost conscious too because I heard a howl before hearing my own skull crack." She remembered that when she regained consciousness the group was helping themselves to the trunk of her car. "They took everything except for the weapons I had on me and some other objects I had in the front of the car." Her food, water, clothing, medical supplies, camping gear and her duffle full of weapons were gone. The only things she had left were three handguns, one silencer, the machete, a first aid kit that was standard in all cars, binoculars and her night vision goggles. And the most important, her photos.

"Once I was conscious, I shot off a couple of rounds." She could clearly remember their fright once she came out of the car bloodied and growling like an animal. Their fear turned into full-blown panic once they were greeted with a shower of bullets. "They scurried off like vermin and I lost conscious on the pavement after."

"I don't know how long I was out, but when I woke up Alistair was trying to drag me off the road. There were six wendigos not twenty feet away from us and they were _very_ enthusiastic." She couldn't put in words the terror she felt once she saw them. She had barely been able to move, let alone see straight to target their heads.

Green eyes slid towards the dog. "Stupid dog actually thought he could move 65kg of body mass…"

Her tone was not reprimanding but grateful. If it hadn't been for him forcing her awake, she would be wendigo all-you-can-eat buffet.

Alistair perked up when he heard his name. His tail wagging more enthusiastically when Samara leaned forward and petted him kindly. She really hit the jackpot with him…

Rick seated himself beside her and listened further.

"I got up and sent Alistair to distract the wendigos so I could gather whatever valuable was left." For a tiny moment, she had hoped that the wendigos would catch him. If Alistair had died that afternoon, at least then the wendigos would have been too focused on eating him instead of chasing her.

But he hadn't died. The dog had stayed within a reasonable distance from them, always taunting them whenever their attention riveted back on Samara. It had worked for a little while.

"Once I picked up everything I needed, Alistair and I ran. Gods know how I was able to stay focused long enough to do any of that. I guess it was a testimony of human willpower." And a good portion of luck. Because at that point she had been in so much pain, her head so clouded and her limbs so stiff that all her movements came out jerky and disorganized.

"I don't remember clearly for how long we ran. I don't even know how I lost the wendigos or found this place." She looked around the estates, the early morning breeze brushing strands of her dark hair over her shoulders. "Once I saw the houses, the possibility of the estates being riddled with wendigos didn't even pass through my mind, I just went right in."

The house she chose had been thankfully devoid of any corpsey guests. At the sight of a bed, she just placed a chair underneath the door knob and practically blacked out before she even hit the mattress.

"Woke up a day or so later, patched myself up as best as I could, scavenged some of the houses for food and that's it. I've been holed up here until you people came along."

Rick unfroze his raised eyebrows and let out an incredulous breath. _It seems we're both lucky_. "It seems every time I see you you're wounded."

She snorted. "I guess karma finally caught up to me and delivered one hell of a slap. I just can't believe I was bested by a bunch of brats barely out of puberty."

A strangled noise escaped the sheriff's throat and it wasn't a sarcastic one. Samara gave him an indignant look.

"Sorry." Rick settled his expression into a serious one. It had been a slip. The image of Samara, tied to a pole and encircled by a group of children in tattered clothing and war paint while holding spears over their heads, danced in his head. It wasn't his fault that his mind conjured something so ridiculous.

"I told you bloodshed doesn't help."

Her lower lip protruded and Samara sunk in her place like a scolded child.

Rick cast a look at the watch on his wrist. It was almost 7AM; the others should be waking up any moment. His gaze returned to the woman beside him—Samara looked sickly and the shadows underneath her eyes wore more prominent than ever.

"Have you eaten anythin'?"

Samara averted her eyes. "Ran out of food yesterday." She hated this. She was practically at the sheriff's mercy. It was an ugly feeling, worse than losing the majority of her belongings to those little shits.

"Come on. There's some canned tomato soup you can have."

"…I owe you one, Grimes."

Rick waved her gratitude off. "Think of it as me repayin' you for Atlanta. It's the least I can do now that we're neighbors."

Rising up, Rick noticed her poorly hidden wince. "How are you feelin'?"

"Like I was just run off the road and hit a tree." She said with a derisive grimace. Concussion, whiplash, stiff joints—the whole package. The head wound attenuated days ago, but the others were just getting worse. "You don't by any chance have any painkillers around?"

He shook his head.

"It was a long shot anyways…"

* * *

Daryl's eyes were trained on the foreign woman as they approached, his crossbow held readily in his hands. The woman was injured from the way her feet were dragging and as they got closer, he could see the scrapes and cuts littering her face.

His first impression of Samara was a mix one of distrust and caution. Daryl had grown up around enough dangerous individuals to spot one from a mile away and his instincts raked at him that there was one coming towards him right now. The woman had a handgun shoulder holster that held two firearms and several spare cartridges. There was another handgun on her right thigh encased in a holster and a machete at her belt. Her hands never strayed too far from the weapons on the lower half of her body, and coupled with the way her eyes surveyed the area showed that she was cautious even among seemingly safe surroundings. There was a hardened glint in those pale green eyes that spread throughout her features.

The marshal, as Rick revealed, had two large tattoos on her upper arms. They were old from the way the colors were faintly washed out. Daryl's eyebrow almost shot up when he saw the necklace around her russet throat—a turquoise beaded one with several large aged fangs hanging from it. From the size of them he would venture they once belonged to a bear, if they were real.

Her clothing weren't in any better condition that her face, the dark olive T-shirt sported rips and mud patches were more concentrated on the lower portion of her faded navy jeans. Her cherry-brown cowboy boots must have seen better days and the fingerless gloves on her hands were tattered and in need of serious repair.

Overall, she looked like she just escaped Hell.

Rick and the woman stopped just near Dixon and Rick motioned towards the woman. "Daryl, this is Samara. Samara, Daryl Dixon."

The woman was not thrilled with Daryl judging from the faint scowl that broke her apathy.

—The feeling was mutual.

"And the dog is Alistair."

Alistair, as he was called, avoided Daryl altogether. He probably still remembered the roughhousing from last night.

"They're stayin' then?" He drawled in displeasure. At Rick's nod, the hunter snorted. "Just what we need, two extra mouths to feed."

"Don't worry, if you run out of food I'm sure you there's a rat around that you can prey on." Samara smiled sharply, her eyes cutting him like knives. "Just remember to cook it first."

Silence encompassed the trio.

Rick really should have seen this coming. The marshal wasn't someone that tolerated attacks on her person—verbal or otherwise—and neither was Daryl. And from the manner she glowered at him from even before introducing them, he knew there was going to be friction between these two.

Daryl's expression remained unchanged, but his eyes said everything. His arctic blues darkened with a myriad of emotions that were nowhere near positive. They slid towards Rick with an intensity that broached on hostility. The man was containing himself from lashing out judging from his harsh grip on the crossbow.

"You best keep her away from me, Grimes. Otherwise, your _friend_ ain't gonna last long." With one last glare he turned back to his patrol.

Rick massaged his brow. Not a minute in meeting one of the group and Samara already pissed someone off. This was a _fantastic_ start.

He nudged her forward with a bit more force than usual making her blatant scowl turn on him. Once inside the house, they headed towards the kitchen. Shane wasn't on the couch anymore and neither was the shotgun. Rick saw that the back door was open, the most likely location of the deputy.

He motioned to Samara to sit at the table as he searched the food duffle for some canned goods for her. The dog crawled underneath the table and laid down on the cool tiles having already eaten his meal.

"Samara, if we're goin' to live together here, I suggest you don't antagonize the others. I'm more tolerant than they are." Plus, after spending days with her, he was used to her callous character. Partially because he'd already seen the worst she could do and partially because he knew better than to rise to her jeers since they seemed to entertain her.

"Here." He placed a can of tomato soup in front of her and the marshal wasted no time digging into it. Rick sat in the chair beside her and continued. "Look, I'm not tellin' you what to do. I only need to know that I can trust you not to cause problems. My family has gone through enough. You creatin' more ain't somethin' I will put up with."

Samara paused in her eating. Was he threatening her? "What are you going to do, sheriff? Force me out?"

Rick remained silent as he thought on his reply. Either way, his no nonsense expression said it all. "I don't think you want me to answer that."

Samara's lips quirked wryly. _My my, the sheriff is finally starting to learn._

"You've changed…"

"Like you said, we have to adapt, right?"

"I think I'm starting to like you, sheriff." Her smirk grew. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad one."

_I don't either._ As she was more preoccupied with chugging the soup down her throat, Rick's attention was drawn to her tattooed arms. When they had rested at the RV park he had noticed ink on her arms, but coupled with the slight dizziness and the fading sun he hadn't caught a good glimpse. On her right was a giant dreamcatcher that encompassed her upper arm with smaller dreamcatchers, feathers, bones and marbles hanging from the main one; he even saw a few small skulls in there. On her right arm was a henna band circled around the middle of her upper arm. It was as wide as his middle finger.

His eyes slid to her shoulder when it twitched. That's right…she had been injured before the accident. "How's your shoulder?"

She swallowed the soup's contents and licked her tomato juice covered lips. "It's fine. Healed up a week ago. I still get phantom pains, but nothing too serious." Besides, the soreness her whole body was experiencing overshadowed any other injury.

Their conversation was interrupted when Shane entered the kitchen. He froze once he saw Rick sitting at the table with a foreign woman eating _their_ food.

"What the—Who the hell is this?!"

Samara swallowed the thick liquid. "Hmm…this is going to be _fun_."

* * *

Samara was seated at the end of the table facing the entrance of the kitchen and was now eyeing the occupants of the room with moderate interest, having finished her breakfast a while ago. Everyone was present, even the hunter. Half of them were watching her openly and the other half consisted of Daryl, Lori and Shane were subtlety giving her suspicious looks.

_Maybe it's because of the guns…or the face._

Alistair had come out from underneath the table once the prospect of human kindness showed itself and was currently being cooed over by the two children. He seemed to be enjoying the attention that he had been deprived of for almost two months and a half.

Rick was facing the group and explaining her presence here. Initially, Rick introduced Samara to everyone. Shane Walsh was the sheriff's best friend and former deputy, Dale Horvath was the old man, Andrea the blonde woman, Carol Peletier was the other mother of the group and Sophia was her daughter, T-Dog was the African-American, Glenn was the Asian young man and she already knew who Grimes' family and the hunter were. Rick had introduced her as the woman that brought him to Atlanta and Samara could see some of their faces light up with recognition. It alerted her when Rick's friend, Shane, was now regarding her guardedly and with a knowing light, only this knowledge seemed to darken his mood and tighten his grip on the shotgun.

—Had the sheriff revealed more to him than the others?

"Samara is livin' two houses down and I expect that ya'll respect that. There is enough room for all of us here, so there shouldn't be any problems."

After, he told them about the accident and how Samara wandered over here. The marshal's finger curled into a fist underneath the table as she spotted several looks of sympathy. She didn't want their damn pity! They would feel otherwise if they knew how easy it would have been for her to kill them while they slept.

"Samara will be joinin' us in searchin' the houses."

"If you've been here for the past two days why haven't you looked around?" Shane addressed her from his position against the kitchen counter.

"I wasn't exactly in any state to investigate." She thought that was pretty obvious. Between a concussion and spasming muscles, leaving the bed was a nightmare she did not attempt. She had been like a beached whale, twitching everywhere.

"That doesn't matter, we're gonna do it today." Rick interrupted. "As I've said last night, we're gonna split into groups and search through as many houses as we can. We'll be lookin' for canned goods and supplies, and more importantly, makin' sure this place is secure and that no walkers are inside like they were in this one."

"This is gonna be dangerous so keep your eyes open and stay alert. Keep in mind that we'll be spreadin' out into these houses after we secure them, so look them over. If you see one you like, keep it in mind."

Samara watched the sheriff with a faint smirk. He really took his role as leader seriously.

"Carol, you'll remain here with the kids."

"Can't I help?" Carl asked with hopeful intonation from his position next to Alistair.

Lori placed her hand firmly atop his head. "Absolutely not."

"Not this time, Carl." Rick would never in his right mind let his son wander on unsecure grounds.

He returned his attention to the others. "Just like yesterday, we'll divide into three teams. Myself, Lori and T-Dog will be one team. Shane, Dale and Andrea will be another. And the last team will be Daryl, Glenn and Samara."

Once Samara heard that she would be placed with the hillbilly, all semblance of indifference was lost. Before she could even protest, Rick continued.

"Whatever differences you might have, you put them aside today. We all need to be focused right now." That was specifically addressed to her. "Sound good?"

With a reluctant grunt, she conceded. Fine, she could be civil…for now.

"Alright. I'm gonna get guns for those that don't already have one from the RV. Everyone else spread out. I'll meet you halfway."

* * *

Rick exited the RV with the gun duffle in hand. There were enough handguns for the search parties.

The sheriff's mind reeled back to Samara. He was neither thrilled nor disgruntled to have her here. Those feelings of treading on a thin wire that he associated with her returned, and he could only hope that Samara would not do anything drastic like last time. That was his primary concern in regards to her.

Another fear bloomed inside him, one that had been brewing from last night. The marshal had too easily slipped into their house and if she had wanted to, she could have killed them before anyone understood what was going on and run off with their belongings. She had every reason to, she had no supplies, no transport and no protection, and they had it all. If Rick hadn't met her on that farmhouse, his fears might have become real and nobody could say that his worries were unjustified. He might have an outline of the marshal's values and personality, but she was still capable of switching tactics if they contributed to her survival and that made Rick's stomach clench nauseatingly.

Rick loathed unpredictability, especially now in this new world. He had to be extra careful with her. Thoughts of asking Shane to also keep watch on her swam through his head when something caught his eye. He didn't spot it when the group first arrived here because of the overgrown shrubbery hiding it and the fading sun, but there was definitely a sign underneath the plants.

As Rick moved the bush to the side, his hand froze. Not only his hand, but his entire being.

Blue eyes widen in primitive terror.

On the dirtied white board was written in red paint (_blood?_)—

_**All dead**_

_**Do not enter**_

"Oh…shit."

* * *

Samara, Alistair, Daryl and Glenn took the initiative and walked further up the street. Shane's team took the eastern side of the lane, while Rick's team the western. For now, the trio and animal was inspecting the front yards of the houses.

Whenever Samara wasn't scrutinizing the residences, she was watching the hunter. Every move he made attracted her undivided attention. She didn't trust him, plain and simple. All her instincts flared into 'fight or flight' mode around him. Professional experience taught her to be wary of his kind.

Why the hell did Grimes pair her off with him? A blind man could see that she did not want to be around this man and yet, he still did it. If he believed that in this way she would come to some understanding with the hunter, then he was dead wrong. She had no intention of doing that.

Daryl felt probing eyes stare into his back. This wasn't the first time someone ogled him like a zoo animal or a possible threat. He didn't like it one bit and the urge to snap at the woman was just sizzling on his tongue.

"So, Samara…" Glenn caught the woman's attention. "Which tribe did you belong to?"

Her eyebrows rose. "Tribe?" _What is this, the Wild West?_

"Uh…nation?" He didn't want to offend her or anything. While she didn't have that 'I'll-beat-you-bloody-if-you-speak-to-me' air around her like Daryl, there was still an intensity to her.

"The hell does it matter what _tribe_ she's from, chinaman?" Daryl grunted from a few feet in front of the pair.

Samara gave the hunter a flat look and proceeded to answer the youngest of the three just to aggravate the redneck. "I'm Navajo."

Glenn gave Daryl a quick look before giving her a wry smile. "I'm Korean by the way."

"Good for you." She had thought that, that would be the end of their interaction, but Glenn kept giving her looks and opening his mouth then closing it halfway. It didn't take long for her to find it tiresome. "What?"

"Cool tattoos." He motioned to her arms with a smirk. "I always thought about getting one, but…recent events put a stop to that." As in, walkers eating the people working at the parlors. "Do they have any meaning?"

"Not really." Her hand unconsciously ghosted over the dreamcatcher. This one had been a product of her rebellious youth, something to piss her father off with. And it worked _mightily_. The henna band had been added many years later in India as a sign of marriage and hopeful fertility. Samara admitted it freely; she was a sucker for history, old traditions and cultures.

Glenn's voice brought her out of her quiet musings when he pointed to her neck, "Are those real fangs?"

She nodded. "Grizzly."

Daryl turned his head sideways and gave her a strange glance.

"Seriously?" Glenn's eyes widened and he smiled like a child on a sugar rush. "Did you fight one for them?"

She snorted. "Hell no. My five times great grandfather fought one and survived, minus an arm, an eye and an ear. Took its teeth as a trophy. Or so the story goes."

"Only you redskins are crazy enough to tackle a damn bear." Daryl shook his head.

Samara's eyebrow twitched.

"Well, I think that's awesome." Glenn said as he looked between the houses. "The only heirloom my family ever had was a grandfather clock. I hated it when I was a kid. It always kept me up at night."

Just when Samara thought he was done interrogating her—

"Is Alistair yours?"

"No." She sighed. "I found him a month and a half ago."

Glenn smiled at the canine beside him. He always favored dogs over any other animal. This was the first time in he didn't know how long he actually saw one. "He's one of those sheep dogs, right?"

"He was once, now he's a wendigo herder."

Daryl snorted under his breath at her term for the walkers.

"Wendigo?" Glenn's expression contorted in confusion.

"They're human eatin' monsters in their legends." Daryl answered.

Samara was rather surprised the redneck knew what a wendigo was. He didn't look like someone that graduated high school, let alone know about some Native American legend.

"I like walker better. It's got a ring to it." Glenn mused as he readjusted his cap. "So what does Alistair do?"

At this point, his questions were really starting to irritate Samara. She was here to search for undead, not pour out her life story.

"He acts as a decoy and bait." An idea then popped into her head, one that would guarantee silence. "He's also useful in other areas."

"Which are?" Glenn paused in his walk when the woman did. Her voice got strange all of the sudden. Smooth and low, almost purring.

Samara had a strange glint shining in her green eyes. "Well, if I ever run out of food, Alistair will come in handy." She took a slow step towards him. "But now that all you people are here, I guess he's safe." And another. "That is until the meat finally runs out."

"Meat?" His voice came out shakier that he would have liked. When the realization of what she was alluding to dawned on him, he took a step back, eyes wide. "Uh…I-I'm going to…go up ahead."

Samara snickered as Glenn almost tripped as he jogged past the hunter.

Daryl gave the young man an indiscernible look and then turned on the most likely suspect of this strange happening. "I've never seen the chinaman run that fast without a walker on his ass. What you tell him?"

She shrugged casually. "My plans on an all meat diet."

Before Daryl could ask what she meant, a booming sound made the four of them freeze in their tracks. They turned to where the source of the gun noise came from.

"Don't shoot! Don't fire guns!" Rick's distant panicked voice accompanied the gunshot. He was a small dot down the street that was approaching at a rapid pace.

Not four seconds later another round echoed throughout the empty street, this one louder than the first.

"Shit!" Daryl scowled. "Don't these people ever listen to a fuckin' word?"

"What do you think happened?" Glenn stepped back to where Daryl was. He licked his dry lips nervously as his fingers kept clenching around the baseball bat. They couldn't see what was going on because they were a fair distance away from the rest and because the gunshot came from inside a house. The small team watched as Lori and T-Dog ran across the street to meet with the sheriff.

"Wendigos, most likely." Samara was also fuming. _Don't these people realize that now every corpse in the estates will come out of hiding and follow that sound?_

"Fuckin' Shane." The hunter spat on the ground. "That's his shotgun. Idiot must've seen a walker and gone Gung-Ho on it."

Samara brought a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. Not even an hour in meeting the group and she was already regretting not stealing a car and leaving in the middle of the night. "Gods, you people are stupid."

The hunter turned his angry gaze on her. "Don't put me in the same category as that asshole, squaw."

"_Squaw_?" A rather un-ladylike snort left her lips. "That's the best you can do, you inbred hillbilly?"

"What the hell crawled up your ass, woman?"

"Umm…g-guys?"

Neither Daryl nor Samara heard him. Their ears and eyes were only for each other.

"You're my problem, redneck!" She snarled. All that anger from her recent misfortune was starting to surface having found a good target to let it out on. It didn't matter if it wasn't this man's fault. The fatigue experienced from the accident had made her quite short-tempered which only worsened the situation. "Every damn turn I make, morons like you come out of the woodwork and fuck it all up!"

When Alistair—whimpering frantically—pawed her leg with vigor, Samara pushed him away with her foot.

"You crazy bitch!" Daryl was practically towering over her despite their almost identical height. "How is it my fault? Did you see me fire a fuckin' gun?!"

"Hey!" Glenn shouted at both of them, finally catching their attention.

"What!" Both shouted at the same time, scowls trained on the Asian man.

"Run!" Glenn shot past them back towards the others, Alistair on his tail.

Samara and Daryl watched with wide eyes how thirty undead walked out from between and inside the houses out into the open. They all had their milky ravenous eyes on them. Not even a heartbeat passed that they all began marching towards them, beyond excited at seeing the first fresh meal in months.

"Fuck me..." Samara whispered hoarsely as she skittered back and ran.

Daryl was of the same mind and passed her in his haste.

Samara's panic increased because running wasn't an activity that she was able to accomplish successfully at this point. The muscles on her lower half were working madly, making her back throb in excruciating pain.

_Oh gods!_

It wasn't just the wendigos at her back that she was worried about now but the ones coming from the sides and those in front.

"Everyone, we need to get out of here!" Rick shouted. He was shooting walkers as he ran. "Get everyone in the cars! T-Dog, Lori get Carol and the kids!"

Shane, Dale and Andrea had already come out of the house and when they saw the walkers, they ran. Dale and Shane opened fire, no longer caring about making noise. It wasn't like it mattered anymore.

Lori and T-Dog reached the house by now and Glenn along with Alistair almost reached them.

"Daryl, help Samara!" Rick yelled through the gunshots once he saw how far the marshal was from everyone. The walkers were just a few meters away from her and gaining.

Daryl looked behind him and gritted his teeth when he saw the woman lagging, pain marring her expression. Her running was a mix between a power jog and a limp, just a little bit faster than the walkers shamble.

"What the hell are you doin'?! Run!"

"I can't!" She yelled roughly as she shot off a couple of rounds into the wendigos behind her.

"Fuck!" He spat and ran back. As much as every instinct in his body was screaming at him to leave her behind, he couldn't. She was a hot-tempered asshole, but he couldn't leave her to get eaten by walkers just because of that. One of the main differences between Daryl and his older brother had been a sense of decency towards women. Even with all those guns on her, she was still female and in his mind, that made her the weaker of both sexes.

Not to mention it would put him at odds with the sheriff if his _friend_ died.

Daryl let loose an arrow into the nearest walker and grabbed the woman's arm. If he had to drag her all the way to the cars he would, wounded as she was.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, stop!" She screeched at the added pain the man was causing her by forcing her to run faster than her body allowed.

"We stop, we're both dead! So shut up and run!"

Rick and Shane remained behind and were picking off the walkers closer to the duo. Once they reached them, the sheriff and deputy covered them as they ran.

T-Dog, Lori, Carol and the kids were already at the cars and shouting to the others to move faster. Dale, Glenn, Alistair and Andrea were halfway there, the older man shooting the stragglers as he ran, paving a clean way for the men and Samara.

There were too many walkers. Another twenty must have joined while everyone was running.

"Move!" Rick yelled. Samara was moving too slow and the walkers were not far behind.

"I'm trying!" Samara yelled back. Her vision was swimming and her head felt heavy. If Daryl wasn't holding onto her so firmly, she would have collapsed by now.

"Someone pick her up already and let's get the hell out of here!" Shane shouted as the head of a walker exploded from the force of his shotgun, spraying brain and blood on the other undead. The downed body made several walkers trip over it, creating a domino effect.

Daryl slung his crossbow over his shoulder and wasted no time in picking the woman up into a fireman's carry over his shoulders. Now that she was finally off the pavement, they could all move faster, but it left him wholly unprotected. If any walkers appeared in front of the hunter, he wouldn't be able to grab his crossbow or any other weapon.

A car engine suddenly rumbled through the street and the iron gates flew open as Shane's car made contact with them. T-Dog was behind the wheel, driving right into the walkers, mowing down as many as he could. This provided the others with enough time to reach the convoy safely.

"Get in the cars and go!"

Rick departed from the group to his respective car while Shane headed for Carol's car and Daryl for his truck. He lowered the woman on the ground and opened the passenger side. With a harsh shove he threw her into the car, ignoring her howl of pain and the foul curses directed at him. He really couldn't give a shit what she called him right now. Daryl climbed into the driver seat and started the engine. Sweat was pouring down his forehead in abundance.

T-Dog was turning the car over and heading back towards the convoy. The front side of the car was splattered with blackish blood and bits of rotten flesh, the windshield was cracked and the bumper was dragging on the concrete, creating sizzling sparks.

The sheriff's car was already speeding down the road and the RV was also in motion. Carol's car was not far behind and T-Dog was just a few seconds from reaching the street. The truck's engine came to life and Daryl wasted no time in putting the old car in motion. The occupants of the truck jerked with the abrupt movement and Samara almost hit her head on the dashboard.

"Watch what you're doing, you dick." She grumbled disconnectedly.

"Shut up." Daryl growled at her.

The convoy reached the highway and veered left. It didn't really matter which way they were heading as long as it was far away from the Wiltshire Estates.

Once the car was steady, Samara swayed in her seat. Her vision at this point was similar to a kaleidoscope; there wasn't anything that she was able to focus on properly, colors all blended like a painter's pallet. A growing churning feeling was left in her stomach as the adrenaline drained from her body. Surprisingly, she couldn't feel the soreness in her muscles anymore.

With a groan, the woman grabbed the handle for the side window and tried to shift it. The window stopped a few inches in.

An anxious whimper escaped from between her lips. "Stop the car."

"Why?" Daryl gave her a look and saw the paleness on her face.

"Just stop the fucking car!" A hand came up and covered her mouth. Her cheeks puffed out and he could hear a bubbling heave in her throat.

With a disgusted grimace, Daryl did as told. He would rather not let this happen inside his truck.

With frenzied jerks, Samara opened the side door and hurled her breakfast on the warm concrete.

The cars in front slowed to a stop once they realized that Daryl's truck wasn't following anymore. T-Dog having caught up from behind, stopped beside Daryl's window.

"Why'd you stop?" There was a wheeze to his voice. The events of today wore him out. And the fact that he drove head on into a pile of walkers left him weak in his seat.

Daryl motioned towards the vomiting woman. T-Dog grimaced at the guttural sounds that were coming out of her.

"She didn't get bit, did she?"

"No. Just go on ahead, we'll follow."

"Alright, man. If you're sure." T-Dog drove forward to inform the others of the temporary delay.

The marshal finally straightened out after a few minutes of dry heaving and closed the door. Small chunks of tomato were dripping down her hair ends and the stinging stench of vomit encompassed the interior of the truck. Daryl scooted closer to the door in hopes of getting away from the foul odor.

"Are you still here?" He asked as he lowered the window and stuck his head out. The woman was wavering like a sheet in the wind and she didn't seem all that aware of her surroundings.

Half-closed pale green eyes slid towards him. The hunter was barely distinguishable in her vision. Dark eyebrows rose up in faint surprise.

"I forgot…my night-vision…goggles."

Samara's eyes rolled back into her head and Daryl didn't prevent her forehead from making contact with the dashboard.

Daryl's frowning visage turned back towards the road.

_Jesus Christ…If she's dead, this is not my fault._


	3. Amber Alert

**Note: **Updating has taken a while, I know. I've been hit with a loss of motivation to write. Hope it passes soon. I've also had doubts as to whether to continue this story or not at least from this angle. But now that I've started it, I'm gonna finish it, dammit.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

"Ugh…"

A low groan resounded in the interior of the RV as Samara shifted in her post-slumber haze. Her head felt like a toddler was banging a rubber hammer against it in annoying childish glee. Her limbs were nowhere near better; like moving through deep water.

There was something soft and hairy placed between the juncture of her neck and once a green eye cracked open, she came face to face with Alistair's black and white fur.

Another groan escaped her lips, this time more disgruntled than sore. This was one of the reasons she hated animals, they all stank. She turned on her side so that the dog could slide off her body. Once Alistair felt movement, he sprang to his feet and started licking the woman's face. In response, Samara roughly pushed the dog away.

"Enough." With stiff movements, she rose to a sitting position. The pain in her lower back and neck was a muted discomfort now. Either she was on some grade A painkillers or someone ripped out her nerve endings.

The RV seemed to be empty of any noise or inhabitants. She and the dog were alone. Throwing the cover off, Samara stood on unsteady legs. Another silent throb sparked in her lower back, but it was ignorable.

Her weapons were gone from her body and piled on the small kitchen table along with a bottle of water and candy bar. The stroll towards them felt like crossing the Great Mohave Desert. Alistair trotted after her as lively as ever; events for him probably came and went without much ado.

Unscrewing the cap, she drank from the bottle, careful not to chug it down in one go. The last thing she needed was to hurl ag—

Samara winced. She finally remembered what happened before blacking out, i.e. vomiting right in front of the redneck like a drunken socialite after a full night of debauchery. Gods, she must have looked like quite the walking catastrophe. Smelling her hair, she sensed no traces of vomit. Someone washed it because it was slightly damp. As for her breath…ugh. Someone was in dire need of some toothpaste.

Samara then remembered the reason for blacking out. Her fingers brushed her brow with a hiss, feeling a tender lump on the center of her forehead.

_Just fucking great, another wound on my face_. _It's not enough that I look like Edward Scissor-Hands, now I have to look like a battered housewife._

With an irritated sigh, she strapped the gun holsters back on and headed for the exit. She's had enough of sleeping and the RV was making her claustrophobic. Opening the door, the marshal recoiled as the afternoon light burned her retinas. Bringing her arm up to shield her eyes, she peered around to assess the situation—the cars were parked in a line in the middle of the road and the group was gathered near the hood of the sheriff's car. Trees covered both sides of the street that went on for miles back and forth.

"Samara, are you alright?"

Looking up, the woman spotted Dale on top of the RV, binoculars in hand and rifle over his shoulder. His face didn't hide the concern at her present state.

"Peachy." She grumbled sardonically and gave a side nod. "Are they conveying without you?"

"Someone has to watch the road."

"How long was I out?"

Dale checked his wristwatch. "Almost six hours. It's near 2PM."

She sighed. Five hours was too much. Her eyes then sharpened having remembered the cause of their sudden departure. "You mind telling me what the hell happened back at the estates?"

Dale shifted and an embarrassed look passed over his face.

"When we searched the house a walker grabbed Andrea from behind by the shirt. I didn't think, I just reacted. Then another walker came out and Shane opened fire." He gave her a meek smile. "It was my fault."

The marshal gave the blonde a quick glance before her eyes settled back on Dale. It was hard not to notice the way he was always around the woman like a loyal guard dog.

"Are you related to her?"

His bushy brows rose. "Andrea? No."

"Are you in love with her?" She deadpanned.

"What?" His eyes widened in surprise. "No! I just care for her. She and her younger sister were the first people I met when I came to Atlanta. Picked them off the side of the road when their car broke down."

_Ah, so he's just being the overprotective grandfather._

"I get it." Samara walked slowly towards the group. "I'm going to see what their deciding."

Somewhere between getting out of the RV and talking to Dale, the others must have noticed her. Samara could see that Alistair decided to join the rest and was being doted over by the little girl—Samara sort of forgot her name.

Rick was already halfway to meeting her. "You shouldn't be up."

Samara ignored him in favor of her own question. "What am I on? Because I'm too numb."

"Doxycycline."

The name didn't sound familiar to her. She leaned on the side of Carol's car. "I thought you didn't have any painkillers."

"Daryl had."

_Oh great, now I'm in the redneck's debt_. Twice, actually. He was the one that came back after her and then carried her off like a dead deer over his shoulders.

Samara nodded and tried to walk again, only to pause when her steps came out disorganized. She gave the sheriff a flat look. "I'm too doped up to move straight."

Rick read between the lines and mentally rolled his eyes. It wouldn't kill her to _straightforwardly_ ask for help, he thought. With her arm over his shoulder, they joined the others at a steady pace.

"You alright, Samara?" Glenn asked with a worried pitch as the duo reached them.

She nodded as Rick placed her on the front seat of his car. The man moved back to his original place at the center of the group. Samara finally saw what everyone was gathered around—a map on the hood. The marshal assessed every person and found them as expected. They were either dead tired or dejected, and after that fiasco she couldn't blame them. Her gaze landed last on the hunter, who was leaning against the bed of his truck. Daryl caught her stare and immediately broke it, his frown deepening further.

Samara will thank him some other time, preferably when there were no people around to witness it.

"As I said, we're gonna to head for Fort Benning." Rick leaned over the map as his finger traced highway 85 all the way to Columbus. "We've already passed Atlanta, so that means we have around 100 miles left."

Samara shook her head to dispel the haziness. _Wait?_ _Fort Benning?_ "…That's not a good idea."

"Why?" Shane gaze rose from the map and eyed her sharply.

"Because if the fort isn't already overwhelmed by wendigos then it's filled with soldiers."

"I don't understand. Isn't that a good thing?" Carol asked, her head turning from Samara to Shane.

Samara shook her head. "Soldiers are fucking _crazy_. It's all that post-traumatic stress and testosterone."

"Are you kiddin' me?" Shane's eyebrows rose in incredulity. "Weren't you a soldier?"

"I was a pilot, not a soldier."_ Why does everyone make this mistake?_ "And if you think that the army would help you without wanting something in return, you're delusional."

"What would they want?" Lori asked; she also doubted the woman. "It's not like we have anythin' valuable."

She shrugged. "Ammo, guns, supplies…" Her eyes gave Lori a once over to make her point. If the deputy wouldn't listen then Rick would. _Hopefully_. "…Other things."

Lori's face fell when she realized what Samara was referring to and her grip on Carl's shoulders tightened to an extent that the boy had to move away from under her hold. The memory of Shane at the CDC was still fresh in her mind. She apologized to her son and avoided Samara's gaze.

The others grownups understood, some shifting in uneasiness. The possibility of _that_ happening had never really crossed their minds until now. Death by walker or some other reason was at the forefront.

"I'm not listenin' to this." Shane shook his head and gave her a dubious frown. "How long were you on your own? Two-three months?"

"Not long enough to lose my mind, I guarantee that." She responded flatly.

Rick put his hand up to stop whatever Shane was going to say. His blue eyes turned on her with sternness. "Samara, I'm with Shane on this. If Fort Benning is still there, I don't believe it's as apocalyptic as you perceive it to be."

Samara's eyes narrowed on the man and she scoffed. "Because the last time I saw something as threatening, it turned out I was wrong, _right_?"

His eyes narrowed with the memory and he leaned forward with his hands on the hood. There was an intensity to the sheriff that was only found when dealing with dangerous situations.

"And may I remind you what happened after you made a hasty decision based on no proof."

It seems the sheriff was still pissed off about_ that._ Samara could practically feel the force of his glower through the windshield, scorching her.

The others watched their interaction with a feeling of apprehension and confusion. They didn't know what to make of Rick's strong response, since until now he had been nothing but civil towards their new companion. But some—like Daryl, Lori and Shane—watched the exchange with a sense of understanding. Now the hunter was certain that something drastic happened between those two, something that made the sheriff wary of the marshal.

"Have it your way, sheriff." Her tone was arctic. "But I'm not stepping foot in Fort Benning. First car I find that works, I go my own way." She knew what she was talking about. You don't spend eight years transporting soldiers without learning a thing or two about their state of mind and how fragile it could be.

Alistair gave a small whine having become too familiar with his new master's intonations. She was beyond displeased.

Rick's frown increased. While there were some aspects he disagreed strongly with Samara, he didn't want to run her off. She was injured and her healing would probably take a couple of weeks.

"Oh come on, you guys are taking this too seriously." Glenn tried to diffuse the situation. He'd only known Samara for a few hours but he didn't want her gone. She was the first person they met that hadn't tried to rob or threaten them with a gun since Atlanta.

"Glenn's right. Besides, you can't even walk let alone be out there on your own." T-Dog agreed. To him Samara was just another survivor, like the Vatos. If she would have been at a hundred percent then he really wouldn't have cared if she stayed or not, but the state she was in now didn't allow his conscious to permit her to leave.

Her eyes narrowed into a glare, setting her face into stone. "I'm not a child and the last time I checked, I didn't need anyone's permission to do anything. If I can walk through a forest with a concussion and find Wiltshire, then I can drive a car with a few sore muscles."

Daryl shook his head at the woman's pig-headedness. She was just asking to die out there. She had been extremely lucky to survive long enough to find the estates after the accident. But right now, she was pushing that luck.

"If she wants to leave, let her leave. We're not her guardians or her jailers." Andrea finally spoke. This was the first time Samara heard her voice. It was a lilting southern one. A bit too dull, but on normal days it would have been a pleasant voice.

"I agree with Andrea." Shane interjected. "Samara's a grown woman, she can take care of herself."

"Thank you." _Finally, people that see reason._

Rick listened to the others and then slowly nodded his head. "Shane and Andrea are right. I can't stop you if you really want to leave. I'll agree to this on one condition though—if you can find a car and gather enough supplies on the way, _then_ you can go. We'll even give you a box of bullets and a few painkillers."

"That's not your stash to give." Daryl scowled. This was one of the reasons he kept his belongings secret. The sheriff gave away far too many things while getting nothing in return. First the guns to those Mexicans and now his brother's drugs to the Indian.

Rick ignored the man, his eyes never leaving the marshal. "You fine with that?"

Samara watched him shrewdly. His proposition was good, but there was one aspect he left out. "And what happens if I find nothing?"

Rick paused. "We'll see once we come to that."

Samara sighed resignedly but she nodded. It was as good as she could get.

"Alright, now that we have that settled we'll take the highway and keep to it. And I know that the highways and interstates are not the best choice." Rick cut Samara off from protesting. "But, I do not want to take the backroads again. We've encountered more problems there than we did on the highways." When they had decided to circle the Atlanta area and when they headed east, they had stuck to the small roads fearing car blocks. They had probably spent more time repairing the RV because of the damage done by potholes than searching for a place to live. "There's barely any fuel left so some of the cars have to go. Two-three at most. The RV stays obviously."

"Mine. It's already beyond livable." Shane gave T-Dog a disapproving glance.

"Your car was the sturdiest." The man shrugged. "Are you really gonna complain when I saved your ass back there?"

"You could've used a different car, is all I'm sayin'."

"Fine, Shane's car stays behind. Anyone else?"

"Mine also." Carol added.

"But mom, that's our car." Sophia whispered to her mother with a small frown.

Carol placed a comforting hand atop her head. "I know sweetie, but we all have to make some sacrifices."

"Don't worry Sophia, you and your mom can ride with us." Carl smiled at the girl. Lori nodded her head at the other woman and Carol gave her a grateful smile.

"I can leave the truck behind, use the bike instead." Daryl spoke from his position. Merle would have kicked his ass if he knew about this. He never liked it when someone else drove his motorcycle. "It uses less fuel and I can maneuver through cars more easily."

"Alright, it's settled then. Let's go."

* * *

Samara was reclined on one of the two beds inside the RV. T-Dog was in the other bed attempting to sleep, but only managing to fall into short naps. The marshal had been zoning in and out for the past two hours, never actually sleeping. Her back felt much better like this. The extra pill she took an hour ago numbed her out good. She was still able to think straight; it was just that her limbs came out lethargic.

Alistair was beside her, his head resting against her stomach, sleeping peacefully. Samara was running her fingers through his fur absentmindedly. It seemed that with each passing day she was becoming more accustomed to the mutt, to the point that issues of the past became just that, the past. Samara didn't know whether it pleased her or not.

Normally it would have taken around two hours to get to the Fort but they were only halfway there. Several abandoned cars had taken care of that. They had to physically push them out of the way. Samara had scavenged through them but found nothing of value except for some clothes that were a bit too large for her. Even the cars were useless—while they had some fuel, they had no keys. Honestly, who runs from the undead with the car keys? It's not like the bastards were going to steal it and go joyriding.

…It was times like these that she wished she knew how to hot-wire a car.

Samara sat and listened to Shane disassemble the group's guns and chatting to Andrea about her father's gun—his gift to her and her sister—and then Shane volunteered to teach her how to assemble it. The marshal didn't exactly know what was wrong with the blonde, but the sadness leaking out of her was almost palpable. If she was depressed, putting a gun in her hand might not be the best of ideas.

The RV suddenly slowed down and Dale's complains reached the other passengers ears. Samara rose from the bed in curiosity as to what was making the RV jolt at every mileage. With a displeased huff at having his human cushion move from under him, Alistair relocated on the pillow she vacated.

"If I find you there when I come back, I'm going to shoot you."

Alistair didn't move a muscle. He had stopped reacting to her jabs some time ago when he realized that she never went through with her threats. T-Dog chuckled and shook his head as he followed the woman.

Samara settled next to Shane—behind Glenn's seat—as everyone stared ahead at the car jam. There was a semi-truck overturned right in their path and cars were littered everywhere on both lanes. Shane cursed once he saw the predicament they were in.

Samara watched as the redneck's bike appeared from between the cars and stopped beside the RV. That motorcycle was really loud. Loud enough to wake the dead…literally.

"See a way through?" Dale asked hopefully, and Daryl nodded before turning the bike around so he could direct the convoy.

Glenn looked at the map with a frown. "Maybe we should head back. There's an interstate bypass—"

"We can't spare the fuel." Dale said in slight frustration. He didn't think they had enough to even reach Fort Benning.

Everyone was tense as they passed the abandoned cars. Eyes were glued to the vehicles with macabre interest and sadness. There so many cars, so many families that must have died or ran to escape the onslaught.

"Jesus." Glenn averted his gaze as they passed a car with a dead family still inside.

"What, never seen a graveyard before?"

"Graveyard?" Glenn turned to the woman behind him.

Samara jutted her chin forward. "Car jams of this magnitude with the dead still inside."

"Not really." Glenn fidgeted in his seat. He felt queasy being here. "We didn't stick to the highways before."

"You've come by blockades like these before?" Andrea asked from her seat at the booth.

"I usually found them near cities, not in the middle of nowhere." New York had been the worst. Over five kilometers of deserted cars on every road leading out of the city. She's never found a more eerie place than that.

The engine sputtered heavily catching everyone's attention.

"Come on, don't do this to me now." Dale said as he shifted gears and stepped on the peddle. The RV kept moving disjointedly, shaking all the occupants of the RV. The engine groaned and let out a few more sputters before finally dying out. White smoke hissed from the beneath the hood and the RV came to a stop.

Samara brought a hand to her face and pinched the bridge of her nose. This is why you should avoid interstates and highways. Because shit like this happens. They were smack in the middle of a bloody cemetery with no notion to how many undead were around or even a way to see them properly if they came out from between the cars or from under.

This was just _perfect_.

* * *

Everyone got out of the RV and joined with the others from the sheriff's car and the hunter. Daryl wasted no time in searching the back of a family car and Samara stepped forward cautious of any signs of wendigos. Alistair joined her and was sniffing around some clothes left on the pavement.

"I said it, didn't I? A thousand times over." Dale approached the front of the Winnebago and shook his head. The RV was done; it had already been on its last leg even before they decided on losing some of the cars. He had hoped of repairing it back at the estates, but look at how that turned out.

"Is there no chance of startin' the RV?" Rick stopped beside him and watched the smoke with a frown. This was going to be a serious setback.

"No, we need a new radiator hose. How are we going to find one in the middle of—" Dale then realized where he was. Potential was all around. "Okay, that was dumb."

"There's a whole bunch of stuff we can find." Daryl said as he rummaged through some lugage.

"Maybe we could find some water or food." Carol said hopefully. Provisions were low and water was in much need, especially in this heat.

"We could siphon more fuel from the cars." T-Dog looked around.

"These people are dead." Lori said somberly, putting a stop to the others endeavors. "I don't know how I feel about this."

Some of the group just realized that behind the happy prospect of finding new supplies, they were actually about to scavenge from people that either died on this highway or ran off from walkers, abandoning all their belongings in favor of their lives.

"You don't have to feel bad about this." Samara said as she opened a car door and poked the dead passenger with her machete. "It's not like the dead will mind."

It seemed that that put the others back in motion.

"Come on, y'all. Look around, gather what you can." Shane called out as everyone spread out through the rows of cars except Dale, Glenn and Rick. While some might not like it, they had no choice. If they wanted food and water, they would have to take them from the deceased.

"Watch out for the corpses inside the cars." Samara called after the others. Gods know, these people made enough mistakes as is. "While they look dead, some wendigos are just extremely fatigued. They won't move at the first nudge."

Samara moved ahead with Alistair, picking up clothes and still edible food and placing them inside a duffle Dale gave her. Daryl was just a few feet away with T-Dog siphoning gas. Glenn was searching for a radiator hose and Rick and Dale were at the back of the convoy and on top of the RV as the lookouts. Shane seemed to have found a truck filled with large water bottles and was enjoying one full heartedly. The children and women—except for Andrea who was inside the RV attempting to assemble a gun—were picking out clothes from some valises.

T-Dog and Daryl heard a thud and saw a corpse on the ground a few feet from them. They watched as Samara grabbed a second one and threw it out of a car without any shame. Alistair sniffed the bodies before sneezing and backing away.

T-Dog shook his head at her callous manner. "You know, you could be a bit more respectful."

Samara's head turned from him to the corpses and she shrugged. "Dead is dead. I'm of the belief that when you die, your soul disappears and that's it. The earthly shell is all that's left behind."

"Be that as it may, would you like it if someone did that to a person you cared for?"

"In that respect, I would put a bullet in that someone." She said nonchalantly as she searched the interior. "But, I didn't know these people, so…I don't care."

T-Dog shook his head again and moved on, the sight becoming too offensive for him. Daryl didn't really see what T-Dog was getting so upset about. Dead _was _dead.

Once Samara saw Daryl alone, she moved. She didn't think she would get a better time than now to speak with him. Her consciousness didn't let her leave the group without thanking the redneck first. She may be a lot of things, but she wasn't ungrateful.

She approached the man as he was sucking on a tube connected to the fuel tank into a car. With a grimace, he spat the petroleum that slipped into his mouth and placed the end of the tube into a fuel canister, filling it up. When a shadow covered him he looked up to see the Native woman towering over him, a slight frown on her face.

—This is just what he needed.

"Hey, redn—" Samara clamped her mouth shut. She was here to thank him not insult him. "Dixon. I want to thank you for what you did back at the estates."_Although you could have done it in a way that didn't involve me being picked up like a trophy_. "And for the painkillers."

The man grunted and went back to his canister.

"Thank Grimes. I wouldn't have given 'em if the sheriff didn't twist my arm." That was a bit of a lie. After he had seen the state she was in before she passed out, he had from his own will given the sheriff a few Doxy's. But the woman didn't need to know that, he just wanted her to leave him alone.

Samara watched him expressionlessly. She hadn't from the beginning thought he'd done it out of sheer kindness or pity. Someone had to force him to hand those pills over.

"Thank you anyways. I owe you double." She looked around, wondering what she could give him to repay her debt. Not clothes, food neither. "You smoke?"

His frown deepened and he nodded.

"If I find any cigarettes, you can have them."

Daryl watched her departing back for a few moments before returning to his task. He paused when he found the woman's dog right in front of him, just staring. Daryl sat still as the dog carefully stepped closer, his head lowered but eyes alert.

When the animal got within a foot from him, Daryl shot his arm out to shoo the dog away. He didn't have time to play 'stalk the hunter' or whatever else the dog was thinking. Alistair immediately ran off, afraid of the man.

Daryl huffed. _Damn dog._

* * *

Samara didn't know how long it passed since she found a pack of smokes. Granted they were already opened, but it was better than nothing. She had changed into a fresh set of clothing, finally getting rid of those stinking materials after wearing them for several days on end, sweating and sleeping in them. A pair of dark jeans, a grey tank top and a beige button-up short sleeve shirt, and finally but most importantly, fresh bra and underwear. The only thing she didn't get rid of was her cherry-brown cowboy boots; they still had their days ahead. With a smirk, she picked a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from a rear-view mirror. If she could just find a cowboy hat, she'd be in heaven.

Samara wasn't exactly pleased that her hands were bare. The wedding ring was glaring like a neon sign and she wasn't in the mood to answer any question regarding it. Telling the sheriff was one thing, but it was another to share personal information with a whole group.

She gathered enough food to last her and Alistair a week. And with the water Shane found, she was settled. By luck, she found a purse filled with drugs stashed deeply inside a travel case. Tablets for headaches, colds, menstrual pangs, depression, sleep disorder, weight loss, aches. Whoever the owner was must have been a regular pill-popper.

The marshal was inspecting a thick dark blanket inside a Range Rover. It was strangely quiet outside, but she didn't give it much thought; it was always quiet these days. That is until Daryl rushed to her side.

"Hide now!" He hissed urgently before crawling underneath the car next to the jeep.

Samara didn't spend time questioning him why, his tone said it all. Wendigos. Looking behind, she saw the mother of all undead shambling through the cars right towards her.

_Fuck, it's a hoard_!

"Alistair, at me. Now!" She whispered sharply at the dog that was a few feet away. Once the dog spotted the corpsey bastards, he ran like no other, fear propelling him inside the car with Samara. He could deal with a few undead, but when they got passed a dozen, he ran.

No way were they going to get underneath a car. If a crawler spotted them, then they were as good as dead. At least in a vehicle they had a moderate amount of protection.

She closed the doors gently behind her, thankful that all the windows were up and laid down in the backseat's footrest. Gripping the shaking dog at her chest, she threw the moldy blanket over her and Alistair and made herself as small as possible. A hand clamped over the dog's snout to keep him from whimpering.

"Shhh, stay quiet and I'll treat you to a nice big juicy steak." She whispered soothingly to the dog. If he so much as started a commotion like last time—which she narrowly escaped—she would break his neck, her feelings for the canine aside.

Sweat dripped down her forehead and not all of it was from the dread. The way she was positioned put an enormous strain on her lower back and neck that she could feel even through the painkillers and she couldn't do a damn thing about it. If she moved she could attract the attention of a passing walker.

It didn't take long before she heard it. The shuffle and groans and moans of the undead. She couldn't see a thing of what was going on with the quilt over her head and she didn't really want to. All she could do at this point was to wait it out.

Samara didn't know how long it passed until the walkers were no longer heard. It could have been an hour or well over it. They were slow as snails and she remembered a time in South Carolina where it had taken almost two hours for a fifty or so hoard to pass by her hiding place.

Even if she couldn't hear them, that didn't coerce her out of hiding. There was always the occasional straggler that popped out right when you thought it was safe.

For a second, Samara thought she heard something. A faint shriek. Listening further, there was nothing to indicate there was a sound in the air. Either someone in the group screamed or the pain was making her hear things. It wouldn't be the first time that happened. First day at the Wiltshire Estates, she had heard all sorts of sounds that weren't real, including her deceased father's voice. But if someone did scream, then she really hoped that the hoard didn't hear it or they will all be fucked royally.

Samara stayed put for another five minutes before she ventured out from under the blanket. At first it was just a peek. She couldn't see any decayed human forms passing by the windows. Letting go of Alistair, she whispered to him to stay put and looked out the window. There was nothing in the area.

Straightening out, she looked through all the windows and found nothing. There were some small dots moving up ahead, but they were too far to hear anything if it happened here.

With a heavy exhale she climbed on the backseat and arched her back, hissing through her teeth at the ache. Gods, it really hurt.

Alistair crawled out from beneath the blanket and joined her on the backseat. His head rested in her lap and now he was openly whimpering and shivering. He seriously feared hoards.

"It's over now." She patted him on the head.

Opening the car door, she gently got out with Alistair. Leaning over slightly, she found no trace of Dixon underneath the parallel car or any signs of blood. Samara slung the duffle filled with food and clothing she left next to the car over her shoulder and looked over the vehicles. She took out her muffled gun and kept it aimed in front of her. She didn't want any surprises.

Alistair sniffed the air around.

"You smell any wendigos?" Dogs had more evolved sense of smell that humans, so Samara depended on him to sniff out the stragglers she couldn't see. "Alistair, find."

The dog sniffed some more before moving forward. Samara followed in a slightly crouched pose. They were heading back towards the convoy and she couldn't see sign or hear any of the others.

What Alistair led her to surprised her somewhat.

Daryl was crouched over a pale semi-conscious T-Dog, tying several shirts over a profoundly bleeding gash on his arm. The muffled gun changed its trajectory to T-Dog's forehead.

"Was he bit?"

Startled, Daryl looked behind to see the Native woman pointing a gun at them. He had been so concentrated on stopping the bleeding that he hadn't noticed her or the dog approach.

"No, he cut himself and lost a lot of blood." The gun still didn't lower making Daryl glare. "Stop aimin' that gun or I'll knock you on your ass, and help me get him to the RV!"

Samara lowered the gun after a pause and placed it back in its holster. While she did not appreciate his tone, she recognized the gravity of the situation and put her annoyance aside. She approached T-Dog's right side and slung his arm over her shoulder while Daryl did the same to his left. With a heave, they raised the man off the ground and dragged his barely conscious body back at the convoy.

With a command from Samara, Alistair walked in front. He was still sniffing around, alert for any rotten odors.

"Where are the others?"

"How the hell should I know? I've been with him the whole time."

* * *

Daryl, Samara and T-Dog found the others near the side of the road watching the edge of the forest. Lori was holding Carol and the woman was wailing hysterically for her daughter.

"A little help here." Daryl shouted at the others.

Once they noticed T-Dog's bloodied state, Dale, Glenn and Shane rushed over.

"What happened?" Shane asked them austerely. He feared the worst as the amount of blood on the man was disturbing.

"His arm got cut up."

Dale watched with horror-struck eyes. "Jesus. Glenn, open the door."

The Asian teen hastily did as told and Shane took over for Samara. The woman stretched her back, relieved of the heavy burden. Andrea soon joined them and Samara raised a brow at the woman's face. There was no cut or gash on her where the blackish blood could have come out of.

"What happened to you?"

Before the blonde could answer, Shane did it for her by bellowing in irritation, "Someone get this damn walker out of here!"

"Shit, I forgot that it was still there." Andrea climbed the steps and entered the RV. "Glenn, help me with him."

Looking around Samara found no sign of the sheriff. With all the men and Andrea inside she walked over to Lori, Carol and Carl. Alistair, who had been watching the commotion around the RV, followed his master.

"Was T-Dog bit?" Lori's eyes switched uncertainly from the RV to Samara.

"Cut his arm on something. Where's the sheriff?"

"He's gone after Sophia." Lori's gaze darkened with worry. "She ran into the woods after a walker spotted her."

_Sophia? Ah, the girl… So that scream was real._

"My baby…" Carol's hand went back to her mouth, muffling her cries.

Samara averted her gaze. While she could understand the woman's plight, it didn't mean she wanted to be around her right now. She hated when people cried.

Five minutes later, T-Dog's bleeding finally came to a stop. His arm looked like a mummies appendage, all covered up in bloodied white towels with duct tape holding them together. At this point Daryl had left the RV and was at a small distance from the women, cautiously watching the edge of the forest.

Not even a few minutes later Rick appeared out of the foliage, battered and heaving. He was soaked wet from the knees down and there were drops of blood on his almost white shirt.

"Where is she? Didn't you find her?" Carol watched the man with crippling dismay. She kept looking over his shoulder, hoping that her daughter was a behind him.

Rick didn't pause to answer the woman, he just walked forward.

"W-Where is she? Where's my babygirl?"

"Dad, where's Sophia?" There was a waver in Carl's voice. He didn't want to believe that his only friend was lost or, worse, dead.

Rick shook his head not wanting to answer and headed towards Daryl. There was an urgent look in his blues and considering that the little girl wasn't with him, it meant that he lost her.

"Daryl, I need you to come with me. Right _now_."

"Rick, where's my daughter?" Carol latched onto his shirt and pulled to get his attention. Considering that the woman was usually meek as a mouse, this new development was surprising. Lori came from behind her and unlatched the woman from her husband, holding her to her person.

"She's somewhere safe." Rick lied, wiping his brow of the sweat and dirt in frustration. "I just need Daryl to find the path there."

At this point, Glenn, Andrea and Shane came outside once they heard the commotion. The sheriff's gaze slipped towards his long time friend and the man knew what he was requesting without even having to verbalize it. He walked back inside the RV to get his guns.

"Glenn, you're comin' also. Get a weapon."

"Uh…right." With a jerky move, he slipped inside the RV as Shane was coming out with his shotgun.

Without a pause Rick turned towards Samara. "Can Alistair track scents?"

"He's a sheep herder, not a bloodhound." Besides wendigos and food, he couldn't find shit.

Once the four men were ready, Rick wasted no time in marching straight back into the forest, the men following the sheriff without a word. Daryl was next to the sheriff, while Glenn and Shane formed the end. Before disappearing into the foliage, Rick turned towards the others.

"Everyone stay here." His gaze landed on Samara first, but then seemed to reconsider as it shifted to Lori. "Keep everyone here, do not follow."

A dark brow rose and Samara snorted. What, he thought her incapable of being in charge? Her eyebrows then furrowed...No, it wasn't that. He knew she was capable, he just didn't trust her to.

Samara snorted.

* * *

After twenty minutes of searching, Samara took a break as the heat was becoming too much for her and was currently relaxing in the shade against the tire of the RV, smoking a cigarette from the pack she was supposed to give Dixon. Alistair had found shelter underneath the RV and was ventilating on the cool pavement. Lori had managed to calm Carol down a while ago and the woman was now just staring out into the forest with a troubled expression. The others had scattered around looking for supplies. With the current situation, they needed to do something to keep their minds off the fact that half of their group was now gone. T-Dog was still inside the RV under medication with Dale checking up on him every few minutes.

Half of the search team came back about half an hour after leaving. Shane had informed them that they had not found Sophia _yet_ and that Daryl stayed behind with Rick to follow her trail. Carol deepened into her despair as her fears intensified and she all but stopped talking. She returned to her post at the edge of the road and the others scattered, all feeling like this was the start of something unwanted, something that could potentially destroy whatever balance there still was left.

Samara was not exactly moved by the group's plight. Sure, she felt bad for the mother but this is what happens when you have children nowadays. Children are weak, ignorant and are not able to function without someone holding their hand. Eventually, they are the ones that go first.

The marshal watched lazily as Andrea and Shane drove the cars off the road to make room for the RV. She would soon have to relocate from her place, Samara thought, and that brought a grimace on her lips. The summer heat made her too sluggish to do that.

At some point Carol decided to join Dale, her anxiety reaching the point where she could no longer stay silent. "Why are we moving cars instead of looking for my daughter?"

"We have to clear enough room so I can get the RV turned around as soon as it's runnin'. With the fuel we can double back to a bypass that Glenn flagged on the map."

"Going back's goin' to be easier than tryin' to get through this mess." Shane gestured towards the jam once he approached them.

Carol's face fell, shifting on her feet. "We're not going anywhere till my daughter gets back."

"That goes without sayin'." Lori comforted her as she passed with a crate filled with food and cans of soda in her hands.

"It's just a matter of time till Rick and Daryl find her." Shane gave the trembling woman a small smile.

Carol wasn't relieved as she stepped back to her vigilance at the edge of the road. Lori gave the woman's departing back a sad look and continued towards her and Rick's car. There was nothing she could do or say to the woman that could comfort her.

Andrea and Glenn approached the two men with a few items they looted.

"How long do you think they're gonna stay out there?" Andrea nodded towards the forest as she eyed Carol with heavy eyes.

Shane rearranged the shotgun over his shoulder as he spoke tiredly, "As long as it takes."

"Night's gonna settle in a few hours." The blonde stated with a slight warning to her tone. If they didn't find the girl…

"Then let's hope they find her until then." Dale interrupted as he climbed back into the RV to check up on T-Dog for the umpteenth time.

Samara watched as Andrea frowned at the entrance of the RV where the old man stood seconds ago and unscrewed a bottle of water. While sipping on the bottle, she took a nervous peek behind her where the hoard disappeared. "What do you think that was? I've never seen anythin' like that."

"Yeah, all of them marching along like that." Glenn looked in the same direction, still rattled from what happened an hour ago.

"Sound."

The trio turned their attention to the Native woman seated on the pavement with rivulets of smoke floating around her head.

"What?"

Samara's sunglasses shined with the motion as she took another drag from her cigarette. "They're attracted to sound. Anything loud enough to catch their attention, they start marching."

"All of them, just like that?" Glenn frowned.

She nodded languidly. "Picture this, a car explodes. Now that sound carries off for miles, probably more so since the world is quiet as a tomb now. Every walker in that mile radius that hears that explosion will head towards it. On the way, they cross paths with other walkers and soon you have little groups. And the more they meet other groups they expand until there's a hundred or more walking in the same direction."

"Jesus." Andrea let out a breath as she felt a shiver crawl down her spine. The walkers that passed them had probably been around fifty or so. But hundreds…

"This is why you should be as quiet as a mouse. Because if you're not, they'll find you." She had learned that the hard way; stopped using her guns unless they had a silencer on.

"This is what must have happened at the camp. They probably—Oh shit." Glenn winced and brought his hands to his face, covering it in horror. "The car…I came into the camp with the alarm on."

Samara started snickering despite the obvious sinister end of the Atlanta campsite. Gods, these people were hopeless. Almost three months into this new world and they still knew squat. "Don't worry, kid. Sooner or later, we all get our hands bloody. Willingly or not."

That brought out some stunned and shocked looks. The fact that she had the balls to say something like that after the many deaths that resulted from the attack caught them off guard.

"There's somethin' wrong with you." Shane gave her a last glower before turning to the distraught Glenn and placing a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. "What happened at the camp wasn't your fault. We've lived there for so long the walkers probably heard us long before that."

Glenn's distressed expression still didn't leave his face. He didn't want to believe that all those deaths were because of his thoughtless joyride. He knew that this will keep him awake tonight; there won't be any rest for him.

Andrea gave Samara a damning glare. Not because of what she said, but because she found it amusing. Her sister's death wasn't a laughing subject. Not to her.

With a huff, Samara lapsed back into silence and finished the rest of her cigarette.

* * *

Samara was loading up a blue Volkswagen Golf with the provisions she found. She had finally found a working car with keys in the ignition, filled up the fuel tank and another two canisters as backup. Samara had left her furry companion underneath the RV where he currently still was, dozing away without worries.

There had been a commotion some time ago involving a radio message issued by the Office of Civil Defense, but she had tuned it out almost immediately. It wasn't like it mattered anymore what a defunct government said.

Dusk was almost upon them and the hunter and sheriff still hadn't returned yet. People were starting to get anxious. In an hour or two it would be pitch black and they were still in the graveyard with no protection or way to see if another herd where to pass by.

While Samara was securing the last canister of fuel, the sheriff's son approached her. The woman gave him a side glance before going back to rearranging the duffels so nothing overturned when the car moved.

"Dad said you were an army pilot." Carl finally spoke after a minute of watching her. His mother had advised him not to approach the woman, but she wasn't around right now to see him. Samara just appeared in their lives not a day ago and he was curious about her.

"He is right."

"That's cool." He traced circles in the layer of dust covering the car. "What kind of planes did you fly?"

"Helicopters mostly. Black Hawks and Apaches." Samara peeked over the sides of the open trunk door, wary of the boy's mother. She didn't want to have Mrs. Sheriff accuse her of corrupting her kid.

"Have you been in war?"

She nodded after a slight pause. "I've been in a few."

"I dreamed of being either a police officer like my dad or a soldier back when everything was still normal." He crossed his arms on the side of the trunk and placed his head atop them. There was a pensive look in his eyes.

"Trust me kid, being in the army wasn't as glamorous as the advertisements said. The only good part was that I got to fly." She probably would have been happier if she kept on flying even after quitting the army, but things have a way of turning out not as you always want them.

"Why did you quit?"

"My father died. It changed my priorities." Samara motioned for him to move from the car so she could close the trunk.

Carl took a step back. "Sorry."

"It was a long time ago." Samara leaned on the closed trunk with her arms crossed. "What about now? What do you wish to do in this desolate future?

Carl thought on this, his gaze distant. "Not get bit. Stay alive long enough to grow up into an adult."

His blue eyes were a pale shadow of the intensity that his father could produce. In the future, this kid would have a stare that could rival his old man's, maybe even stronger. It was sad in a sense. He will soon forget what it was like to be normal and this new world will be all that he would know.

"Yeah, that's something good to strive for."

The boy's eyes traveled to the machete at her belt and he sourly remembered the incident with the blades he found an hour ago. It wasn't fair; he couldn't have a gun or even hold a knife and in the mean time his mother expected him to remain safe. He would be safe if he had something to protect himself with. He wanted to be of some use instead of always staying behind with the women.

"Can I hold it?" He pointed at the machete.

Samara let out an amused snort. "I think you're mother would lynch me if I let you."

"Hey Carl, your mom is lookin' for you." Shane called as he approached the conversing duo. "Hop to."

With a sigh, mini-Grimes walked back towards the convoy. Shane watched him for a few seconds before his dark gaze settled on the woman. Samara stepped away from the trunk and sidestepped Shane on her way to the driver's side.

"I see you got everythin' you need."

"Mhmm."

Shane took a glance behind him to see if anyone was overhearing them. "You still thinkin' of leavin'?"

"That's the plan." She opened the car door and got in.

Shane caught it and stopped her from closing it. Samara stared at him blankly before leaning into her seat. It seemed the deputy wanted to talk.

"I'm thinkin' of leavin' also." He leaned on the side of the car, a far away gaze spreading over his eyes. "There's no place for me here anymore. I—"

"That's not going to happen."

The man frowned. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I have a pretty good idea." Samara may not be good with people, but she was pretty damn accurate at reading body language. Lawmen were prone to cultivating that valuable ability considering the individuals they faced on a daily basis, and if they were smart, they perfection it. Grimes had that aptitude. Samara was not sure Shane did considering he wanted to come along with her.

And coupled with what Shane just said…well, it didn't take a genius. "The moment we go on that road we'd be at each other's throats."

"How do you know?"

"Call it a hunch. I'm not someone you can live with easily, the sheriff can attest to that. And you don't seem the type to tolerate much. We'd be a powder keg ready to explode."

"Two have a better chance out there than one and a half." He tried one last time. He wasn't all that excited with the prospect of traveling with this particular woman considering what he knew about her, but going alone would be risky.

"True, but it's still not going to persuade me."

Shane watched her for a few more moments before running his hand over his head and leaving without a word. She'd seen him do that on a number of occasions and Samara wondered if it was a nervous tick or a stress thing.

While having a human partner was not a bad idea, the marshal was finicky when it came to whom. Her investment in Rick had paid off in the end, but Shane was a different story. From what she's observed so far, he was always tense and ready to use his shotgun. He did not like his decisions questioned and he wanted to be the lead. From what the sheriff had told her, Shane had been the head of the Atlanta camp and once Rick appeared, he had been demoted to second. Very few people can accept that.

The group had looked to Rick for guidance and she couldn't blame them. He was a natural born leader, while Shane left to be desired. As she said, the man was too tense.

She had no desire to bring someone like that along with her.

* * *

An hour later, Samara watched from her seat in the car as everyone—even T-Dog who was awake now—seemed to animate and approach the edge of the road. It seemed that the tracking duo were back since there were no screams or gunshots ringing.

The marshal popped an Ibuprofen, swallowed it dryly and left the car. As she finally got them into her field of vision, Samara took notice: Carol was on a verge of hysterics as there was no sign of her child and the hunter seemed to have blood splattered on his jeans.

Not a good sign.

"You can't leave my daughter out there on her own! She's only twelve!" Her panic was increasing. "She can't be out there on her own!"

"I know this is hard, but I'm askin' you not to panic." Rick tried to placate her. "We know she was out there. We have to make this an organized effort. Daryl knows the woods better than anybody and he'll be overseein' this."

Daryl was about to back up the claim, but Carol's eyes slid towards the blood on him. "I-Is that blood?"

"We took down a walker." Rick said, trying to keep eye contact with her away from the stains. "There was no sign it was ever anywhere near Sophia."

"We cut the son of a bitch open, made sure." Daryl explained further.

Feeling the world crash over her head, Carol sat on the barrier separating the road and fauna. Lori joined her, stroking her back in attempted comfort.

Carol's distraught gaze morphed into accusation directed at the sheriff. "How could you just leave her out there to begin with?"

Samara frowned. Now, how was the sheriff at fault here? It was the girl's damn fault for bringing the undead upon her. While that might be a tad harsh on Samara's part, it was the truth.

Rick shook his head in dismay. "Those walkers were on us. I had to draw them off. It was her best chance."

"Sounds like he didn't have a choice, Carol." Shane stepped next to Rick to solidify the man's defense.

"How was she supposed to find her way back on her own? She's just a child!"

Rick crouched next to her. The guilt he was feeling was overwhelming, his eyes trying to plead with the woman to understand. "It was the only option I had."

"My little girl is lost in the woods." Carol spoke meekly, slightly rocking in her grief. She could not look Rick in the eye anymore.

Rick rose up from his crouch and for the second time Samara was seeing him defeated and without knowledge of what to do next. The first time had been when she had told him of Atlanta getting bombed and she watched how the glimmer in his eyes disappeared with the knowledge that his family might be dead. With one last look at the crying woman, his blue eyes waivered and he left the circle of people.

Samara did not stop him when he passed her by. The sheriff needed to be alone right now.

She wondered what would happen next. Would the sheriff continue the search or would he cut his loses? Knowing him, he'll pursue her tracks again at first light. Samara almost rolled her eyes at the man's good nature. It was out of place in this world.

The girl was gone. Pure and simple. Even before the plague, the rate of retrieving children that had gone missing was small and it reduced even further once the hours passed. Samara had once been a part of a state hunt for a missing child and it hadn't ended well—the forensics stipulated that the child had been murdered five hours from the moment he had been kidnapped. And considering that there was no technology, police force or even a public to keep their eyes open, it's going to be short of a miracle if they found her dead or alive.

Well…it wasn't like this was her problem.

* * *

Daryl was searching through the side bags of the motorcycle. Dale had asked him for some painkillers for T-Dog. The man was clenching his teeth so hard to keep the screams from coming out that it hurt the older man to watch.

Daryl picked up the pill bottle and sat on the seat of his bike. He was worn out. After the herd passing by and the dark panic he felt lying underneath that corpse, just watching and praying that those walkers passing by didn't notice him, and then the hours of tracking the girl in the forest in the burning heat, his nerves were stretched thin.

He didn't know what to think of the girl, Sophia. Dark forests aren't exactly the place for children. Wherever she was, she must be scarred shitless and that kind of fear breeds mistakes that could attract walkers. They had to find her soon, otherwise she would go beyond their range. If she wasn't already.

When he noticed the Native and her dog exit the RV and walk towards him, he tensed warily. Someone out there must really hate him at this point. It wasn't that he loathed the woman, but there was definitely something about her that set him on edge. Maybe it was the fact that she was law enforcement, like Shane and Grimes, but he didn't think it was that. It was something else that he couldn't put his finger on.

Samara picked something out of her back pocket and threw it at the hunter's head. Even with the night sky surrounding them and the dim shine from the vehicles headlights, he still caught them and he didn't do it without a scowl. This woman just _loved_ poking people with a very sharp stick.

Looking over the object, he noticed that it was a cigarette pack.

"I took a couple, hope you don't mind." She said as she lit one up, not even waiting for a response.

He pocketed the cigarettes and watched her exhale smoke through her nostrils. "Why aren't you gone yet?"

"Well I can't really drive in the middle of the night, can I?" She snorted. "I'll head out in the morning. Can't really say I'll miss you lot."

"Feelin's mutual." He grunted.

She smirked wryly, but gave no argument.

Daryl watched her steadily before his eyes moved to Grimes' car behind the RV. The memory of their stand-off while deciding on their route to Fort Benning resurfaced.

"What happened between you two that has him all coiled up like a snake?"

Daryl caught a glimpse of her shoulder twitching up in a nonchalant shrug.

"That's between me and the sheriff." Another cloud of smoke coiled around her face. "If he decides to inform you of our adventure in _full_ detail, then that's his prerogative. I, on the other hand, have no reason."

The man huffed and rose from his bike, set on delivering the pills. "What'd you do, kill someone?"

Her lips morphed into an unsettling closed lip smile. Daryl could practically see her eyes flash in the dark.

The woman and dog walked passed him to their car to settle in for the night, the smoke trailing behind her like an obstinate ghost.

Daryl watched her with a frown. Whatever happened had been fatal considering that the sheriff reacted not too well to killing human beings—evidence when Daryl tried to put a pickaxe into Jim's head while he was still alive. Or maybe she had tried to kill him.

The man stepped forward towards the RV. The marshal could shoot all the people she wanted, he didn't give a damn. As long as she didn't turn those guns on them, it wasn't his problem.

—Because if she did, he won't hesitate to put an arrow in her.

* * *

**Foot Note:** I already have the story written up to Otis's funeral. I'll probably update in a week or so.


	4. Boy and Deer Don't Match

**Note: **Another over 10,000 word chapter, yay! Sarcasm aside, it's dreary writing so much into one chapter. But I do not want to break it in two.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Samara was adding some new provisions to her already ample supply when Rick walked towards her.

Night had passed uneasily and everyone woke up at crack of dawn. They were all going to search for Sophia, except for Dale and T-Dog. One had to repair the RV and the other had obvious reasons for not trekking through a forest. Rick had gathered his group and armed them with machetes and blades. If they were going to go into the forest then he didn't want them carrying guns. Only he, Daryl and Shane had that privilege because they already knew how to use them.

Once the meeting was over, everyone scattered picking up what they needed for their search. They had decided to follow a creek for five miles then turn around and come back on the other side.

Andrea had stayed behind and was arguing with Dale about something that Samara couldn't hear. Not that she was that interested, she was leaving in a few minutes.

Rick approached Samara, patting Alistair on the head along the way. He was on the hood of the car just panting as the heat grew.

"You set?"

"As good as I'll ever get." She eyed him cautiously. He didn't look like he was here to wish her good luck and a bon voyage.

"Samara, I know you want to leave." He placed his hands on his hips. He was going to need all the mental strength he possessed for this. "But you think you can stick around until we find Sophia? We need all the help we can get."

He couldn't see what her eyes were expressing from behind those sunglasses, but he did notice the small downturn of her lips.

"This is not my problem."

"I know that. But I'm askin' you as a favor to me."

The others weren't anywhere close to hearing them, except for Daryl and Shane who were just a short distance away. They remained impassive as they listened to the words exchanged. Samara closed the trunk hatch and approached the sheriff.

"If I agree, what do I get in return?" She had been eyeing that Winchester Model 70 since the moment she saw it among the guns that Shane was disassembling. She had considered stealing it, but the deputy was guarding that bag like a pirate did his treasure.

The man paused in incredulity, even Shane and Daryl gave her a look. "Are you serious? After everythin' that's happened?"

"You do remember _who_ you're talking to, right?" The woman that let him live for two boxes of bullets.

Rick pursed his lips. He couldn't believe she was doing this right now. That selfishness of hers that almost left him stranded in a motel in the middle of nowhere with five people pointing guns at him was rearing its ugly head.

"You owe me this."

She snorted. "For what?"

"Wiltshire—"

"I owed Dixon." She cut him off abruptly. While the sheriff and Shane had provided cover, Daryl was still the one that carried her off, thrown her into his car and then given her the medication. In her eyes, that meant that he alone was to be thanked. "And I paid my debt."

"No, you didn't." The man in question interjected. He was frowning at her not quite harshly, but not exactly surprised. "Only half."

Samara's face fell. In her irritation, she had forgotten one thing. That she told him that he owed him _twofold_. And she only gave him _one_ pack of cigarettes.

_Oh, I can't believe this…_

"Are you blackmailing me?" Her fingers inched closer the gun at her thigh.

"No, I'm sayin' that you owe me." Daryl moved the lowered crossbow in her direction, not aimed but ready to be leveled out and let loose an arrow if she so much as drew that gun on him, consequences be damned. "And you're gonna repay me by lookin' for that little girl."

Samara's expression remained frozen except for her lips that set into a grim line.

"You want me around that much, shitkicker?"

"I'm the last person here that wants you to stay, but the more people we have the more ground we cover." He spat at her. "After we find her, you can return to your tipi, squaw."

When her fingers curled around the handle of her gun, Rick's rigid fingers gripped her wrist. Unfortunately for him, as one of the human species, she had two hands, and that is why one of the guns holstered at her chest were pointed at the hunter's forehead. Alistair, having watched the interaction with close attention, sprang to his feet and climbed the roof of the car. He wasn't openly baring his teeth or showing any hostile move, but the people around him could hear the low menacing rumble resonating from deep within his throat.

"Enough!" Rick hissed in anger and pushed the marshal's gun down. He gave the woman a harsh look before the glower turned on the hunter who was currently aiming his weapon at the woman. "Daryl, lower your crossbow and don't say another word!"

Daryl and Samara were watching each other like two attack dogs a leash away from tearing each other into pieces. Rick was sure if he hadn't been here, a shootout would have ensued. It was even worse since Alistair was threatening to jump the car onto the hunter.

"Do it. I suggest shooting me in the head, otherwise I'll rise up and kill you." While goading him, she didn't notice the way Rick's grip on her slackened or the look of dread that passed his eyes. "But it doesn't matter either way since that dog will tear a chunk out of you before you even get a chance to reload."

The hunter's glare deepened, but his finger didn't move from the trigger.

"Daryl!" Rick hissed more firmly. He's had enough of this. They were both acting like stupid brats.

The man's icy gaze moved to the sheriff then to the dog before it fleeted around them. The others had stopped once they heard loud voices and were watching from a safe distance how Daryl was aiming his crossbow at the woman. His weapon lowered, conceding to the sheriff's demand. He spat on the ground near her boots and spun on his feet, moving away from them in revulsion.

"Christ." Shane ran his hand over his head, the tension leaving his body. His finger had been on the trigger this whole time not knowing who to aim his shotgun to. He didn't think Dixon would kill the woman, shoot her with an arrow yes, but not to kill. He wasn't sure about Samara showing the same courtesy.

Rick finally let go of the marshal's wrist and massaged his brow. "This is not how I wanted this to happen."

From a simple request it turned out into a shitstorm. Maybe it would be better if Samara left. Things will get complicated from here on out between Daryl and Samara. He could feel it on his skin and see it in the glare that was still painted over her eyes.

Samara watched the hunter walk between the cars and disappear over the edge of the rail and into the fauna. She couldn't believe that she would have to stay now. After her careful gathering of supplies now she'll have to remain who knew how long until that girl turns up alive or her corpse does.

With a resigned sigh, tumultuous green eyes slid towards the dog on the roof of the car. She motioned to Alistair to get down as he ceased growling once Daryl left. While she had never thought Alistair was capable of harming anyone with the way he always pined and begged for attention, he was a dog, a predator, and even kind dogs react when pushed or threatened with their owner's wellbeing.

"Fine." Her attention focused on Rick at her side. "I'll help look for the girl. But once she turns up, _however_ she turns up, I'm gone."

"Thank you." Although it came out more reluctant than grateful. "All I want is that girl to be found."

With that Rick walked away with Shane.

Samara watched him direct his puzzled group towards the forest. They didn't know what to make of what happened and Rick gave them no accurate answer. Alistair paused at her feet and looked up at her with wide eyes.

With a groan, Samara holstered her gun and followed.

* * *

Samara was at the back of the line of people trekking through the forest with Shane as the end lookout. Alistair was up ahead with Rick and Daryl, since he could smell walkers he was more useful there than with her.

Samara's eyes traveled from the ground to the surrounding area. She had found no tracks or unusual disturbances in the foliage that wasn't made by the people in front of her or by wild animals.

Samara was disrupted out of her exploration when Shane snapped sharply at Carl who was showing him the blade his dad had given him. The man was tense as he kept looking everywhere, fingers tightening on his shotgun. She really did hope the man wouldn't accidently shoot off a round.

"You're too tense. Relax."

His eyes settled on her before moving again. "You should be followin' your own advice. You think I don't see the way your hand keeps goin' for the gun. And I don't think it's walkers you want to shoot."

"Well, I was just held at crossbow point. Excuse me for still being shaken."

"Nah. Having a weapon pointed at you is not news, is it? Hell, you didn't even flinch. Besides, _surprisingly_, Dixon didn't start it."

Samara scowled at him in irritation.

"Don't glare at me. You brought it on yourself." Shane threw a glance over her shoulder to the head of the group. "You want my advice, stay away from him until we find the girl. Don't complicate things for everyone."

Samara really hoped that that would be possible. As much as she wanted to empty her clip into the redneck, her want to leave these people was greater. They were a nuisance, to put it mildly.

The line ahead suddenly stopped and both Samara and Shane moved to the front. There was a tent just a few feet from them. Alistair had his head lowered and spine slightly arched in that familiar pose that alerted Samara that something off was ahead.

"She could be in there." Shane said as he watched the tent attentively.

"Could be a whole bunch of things in there." Daryl whispered.

"No, there's definitely some_one_ in there." Samara added as she walked forward to where Alistair was.

"Is that your Indian expertise?" The hunter grunted in skepticism.

Her scowl returned.

"No, jackass. The dog." She motioned towards the unmoving animal. "He only gets like this when he smells danger and that usually comes in form of a walker."

She crouched low next to the animal and pointed out to the tent. "Alistair. Walk up. Find wendigo."

The dog suddenly unfrozen and stalked forward, paws barley heard. Rick, Shane, Daryl and Samara followed while the others stayed put. They all walked as silent as possible, Daryl being the most successful at it. The four of them stopped once they were a small distance from the tent so Alistair could inspect it first. The dog sniffed the ground before his snout lead him to the entrance of the tent. Smelling around it, he poked his head inside the slightly open entrance and recoiled back immediately. When his beady eyes returned to the others, he pawed at the tent material.

Someone was home, it seems.

But it wasn't the girl, not alive anyways. Otherwise, Alistair would have entered.

"Alistair. Growl. Get their attention."

The dog's guttural snarl was like a low rumble, loud enough to catch the attention of anyone within a few feet.

Nothing came out. A minute passed. Two. And still nothing.

Samara was no longer concerned. Whatever was in there was either dead or too fatigued to move.

Daryl took the initiative while he settled his crossbow over his shoulder and unsheathed the hunting knife at his belt. He pushed the tent entrance aside and entered. The foul odor that welcomed them could only belong to a decayed corpse. Alistair immediately moved out of the stench area, his sinuses getting more affected that the others. Shane and Rick started coughing, while Samara gagged and covered her nose and mouth with her palm.

By now the others approached gradually and were watching with nervous attention. Daryl came out half a minute later and shook his head. It wasn't the girl, just some guy that opted out.

The stillness of the forest and of the group was suddenly broken by bells. Church bells.

Everyone froze in place, not believing what they were hearing. But once the adrenaline kicked in, they ran towards the sound. They did not go far as confusion settled over them. The sound was echoing throughout the forest making it hard to pinpoint which direction it was coming from.

"I think it's comin' from that way." Rick pointed ahead.

Samara stepped on a log and tried to get a sense from where the bells were coming from, but she was just as lost as the others. Alistair had his ears perked up and was walking ahead slowly.

"If we heard them, maybe Sophia does too." Carol said hopefully.

Glenn caught up from behind with Andrea, panting slightly. "Someone's ringing those bells, maybe calling others."

"Or she could be ringin' them herself." Rick took the lead and ran at a steady pace. "Come on!"

* * *

As they stepped out of the forest they came upon a white church packed with a cemetery.

"That can't be it. Got no steeple, no bells." Shane said as he observed the small church with a perplexed look.

Rick wasted no time and ran towards it, propelling the others to follow. Samara kept her eyes towards the edge of the forest around them. If any wendigos heard those bells, they'll be coming towards it.

Once they reached the red doors of the Baptist church, Rick, Shane and Daryl took the front. Samara was just behind Shane, muffled gun ready. Rick and Daryl opened the doors at the same time. The church was occupied by three seated walkers. Unsheathing their blades, the male trio moved on the walkers and efficiently put them down.

Samara scanned the interior as she holstered her weapon. Except for Jesus hanging there, no one else was around.

Alistair walked inside and searched between the pews. The rest of the group entered and looked around. Rick checked the other exit of the church and yelled out Sophia's name in frustration.

Shane approached his friend, feeling the same frustration. "I'm tellin' you, it's the wrong church. It's got no steeple, Rick."

"This is the only church." Samara interjected. Small county churches like these weren't built right next to each other. "The sound must have come from here."

Shane turned on her with a frown. "How do you explain that?"

Samara didn't need to answer since the bells began ringing again and this time they could, without a doubt, say that it was coming from this location. Daryl was the first to rush outside from where the noise came from. He soon found the source of the bells—a speaker attached near the roof of the church. Glen rushed to it and shut it down.

"It's on a timer." Glenn told the others as he disengaged from the electronic box.

Carol watched with dismay. Her shoulders sagged with hopelessness. "I'm gonna go back in for a bit."

Samara watched as the woman dragged her feet inside the church and the others scattered around, their mood any better than Carol's. They had hoped that the girl was the one ringing the bells signaling them where she was. And now they were back to square one.

Samara sat against the wall of the church. Alistair was somewhere around, probably following the sheriff. She lit up a cigarette and enjoyed the nicotine flavor as her nerves settled. If the girl had been here, she could have been on her way to her car and out of here. It's already been a day. If they didn't find her soon, then the chances of that ever happening were slim. And with that the chances of her ever leaving.

Samara spat on the ground. Damn her and her skewed sense of honor. She should have just left. To hell with the debt.

"Hey, you have any more of those?" Andrea stepped in front of her.

_I have one more actually._ "Can we share this?" She lifted the cigarette she was smoking.

Andrea nodded and sat next to the marshal. With one last puff, Samara gave her the cancer-stick. Andrea only took one hit from it before she started coughing.

Samara watched her with a faint smirk. "Non-smoker?"

"Most of my life." Andrea took another drag from it and grimaced. "Had a phase when I was a teenager."

"Didn't we all."

The blonde handed the cigarette back to Samara. "What was that at the highway? With Daryl?"

Samara frowned as she smoked the rest of her cigarette. "Let's just say that I'll be here for a little while longer."

"Were you roped into this?" Andrea asked after a pause. It was the only explanation on why the woman was still here. The marshal hadn't been all that upset about the girl missing, so it couldn't be because of sympathy.

"Not exactly." She grumbled.

"When you leave…" Andrea started, looking around if anyone was listening. "Do you think I could come with you?"

Samara started chuckling. _Does everyone in this group want to bail out?_

The blonde frowned. "What?"

The marshal shook her head. "For conversation sake, what were you and the old man arguing about?" Samara diverted the line of questioning. If she hadn't wanted Shane to come with her, then she definitely won't want Andrea riding shotgun.

Her frown deepened, but Andrea answered the question. "I thought everyone heard that. Dale's just…He likes to butt into other people's business and make decisions for them regardless of what they want."

"Yeah, I'm familiar with those types." Flashes of her grandparents passed through her mind.

"It's _my_ gun. I should be allowed to carry it." Andrea's eyes went distant as she looked over the gravestones. She absently murmured the next sentence. "If I want to turn that gun on myself, it's nobody's business. Least of all his."

Samara looked over the blonde, expression blank. _So that was it._ With a sigh, she pushed her aviators over her forehead. While she was against talking personal issues with these people, she could listen. It wasn't like she had anything better to do right now.

"You had a sister."

Andrea's pale blue eyes shifted to her in bewilderment.

"Dale." Samara shrugged.

With an incredulous laugh, the blonde shook her head. Damn that old man. Was nothing private anymore?

"Her name was Amy. She was only twenty-four."

"How did she die?"

Her blond eyebrows furrowed. "She got bit by a walker before we left Atlanta." Her voice dimmed at this point. "I shot her."

_Ouch._ To kill your last remaining family…Samara couldn't even begin to fathom how that must have felt.

"And Dale thinks you're going to kill yourself if he hands you that gun." Samara wasn't judging the blonde. While she had felt earth-shattering misery when her husband died, she had never turned the gun on herself. She had thought about it, but her hand stayed from it. In that respect, she was a coward and she was glad for it.

"After what happened at the CDC he's taken on the roll of guardian of my well-bein'." The woman scoffed. Andrea couldn't make a move without Dale asking what she was doing or giving her that 'look'.

Samara frowned in confusion. "The CDC…exploding?"

"I stayed behind." Andrea gave her a wry smile.

The marshal's cogs turned. If Andrea had been fatalistic enough to stay inside a time-bomb building, then she wouldn't have walked out of it on her own volition, not without some coercing. And considering Dale's over-protectiveness around her—

"Dale forced you to leave."

"He pretty much guilt tripped me into leavin'. Said if I was gonna stay, then he would also. And here I am now." She spread out her arms to the view of a desolate field and even gloomier cemetery. "Enjoying the perks of a ravenous freak infested world. Just waitin' for the moment I'll get bit."

Samara could see why the blonde wasn't happy. Losing her last relative and remaining alone in this world wasn't something to look forward to.

"What about you? Did you lose anyone?"

Samara shifted in uneasiness.

"I did answer your questions." Andrea didn't want to be the only one here talking about their most disheartening moments.

"I—"

Just then they heard two voices breaching the spectrum. It was Shane and Lori. The two women listened as they talked about Shane leaving without telling anyone, not even Rick. He thinks that would be best for everyone, and Lori was definitely not happy. But what Samara found _very_ interesting was what Shane said at the end.

"I'm the one that loses _you_."

_The plot thickens,_ Samara mused with dark amusement. Has Mrs. Sheriff been naughty? And with her husband's best friend, no less.

Andrea was watching the exchange with shock. She couldn't believe that Shane intended to leave without a word to anyone. But that also made her rethink her current situation. She could leave with Shane and drive as far away from these people as possible. And Shane was a better partner than Samara; Andrea at least could trust him.

Once Lori headed back inside the church, Samara rose from the ground. She didn't want to be spotted by Shane knowing that she had overheard that conversation. Also, she didn't Andrea to remember her questions.

And so, Samara left the stunned Andrea by walking silently along the wall to the back of the church.

* * *

Everyone was gathered in the cemetery, waiting on the decision on what to do next as Shane and Rick were a distance away talking among themselves.

Samara was sitting on a tombstone with Alistair at her feet. After leaving Andrea, she had searched for the dog and found him reclined in the shadow of the tree they were currently at. As she advanced on the mutt, Samara watched as Shane tried to lose Andrea through the cemetery. The woman proved to be persistent as she kept on his tail like a hound. Samara couldn't hear them from her position, but she could guess what the subject of their conversation was.

Finally, the group's leader and second-in-command joined the fray.

"Y'all gonna follow the creek bed back. Daryl's gonna be in charge." Shane announced them. "Me and Rick, we're just gonna hang back_,_ search this area another hour or so just to be thorough."

Daryl stepped forward, giving them a disgruntled frown. "You sure splittin' us up is wise?"

"Yeah, we'll catch up to you."

"Do you even know how to reach the highway from here?" Samara asked with a frown. The forest around looked the same and if you weren't careful you could easily get confused.

Rick nodded, but he wasn't exactly sure. "We won't stray from the church too far."

Samara watched the faint doubt in his eyes and with a disgruntled grumble, she dislodged from the tombstone. "I'll stay."

That surprised the others, even Rick whose eyebrows shot up. "Are you…sure?"

"If you get lost then there will be more people we have to search for and that means I'll be here longer than necessary." She stepped forward, an obvious scowl on her face. "I know how to track. I heard the creek on our way here so finding it and returning to the highway won't be difficult. We can walk deeper into the forest and if the girl passed through this area I'll notice it."

"Why didn't you say this before? We could have broken into smaller groups and searched for my daughter." Carol looked at her with unfriendliness.

"Nobody asked."

"Alright." Rick interjected before anyone rose to the jab. And he could see Daryl, Lori and Shane were just about to. His blue eyes settled on the marshal with small relief. "If Samara knows how to track then we can stay a while longer."

"I want to stay too." Carl looked at his father resolutely. "I'm Sophia's friend."

Rick placed his hands on his hips and frowned. It would be better if he returned to the highway. They were going to search the forest until nightfall before returning to the convoy.

Lori stepped forward to her son and smiled at him. "Just be careful, okay?"

Carl smiled at his mother and nodded, relieved that she conceded.

"When did you start growin' up?" She hugged him and kissed the top of his head, her motherly affection coming off in waves. Parting with her son, she kissed her husband and embraced him too.

Rick whispered soothing words to her as he drew his gun and held it for his wife to take. "Take this. You remember how to use it?"

"I'm not takin' your gun and leavin' you unarmed."

Daryl stepped forward to Lori with a small handgun. "Here, got a spare."

Lori took the offered gun and thanked him. Andrea looked at the scene with incredulity. With a shake of her head, she followed the others back to the RV, disgusted with the sight.

Samara's gaze followed the departing group and then settled on the dog at her feet.

"Dixon, wait."

The man didn't and kept on moving. With a growl, Samara jogged up to him. "Look, take Alistair with you. I don't have time to keep my eyes on him and tracks and the others."

"Take care of your own damn dog, don't dump him on me." The man gave her a side glare. He wasn't exactly a dog person to begin with and he hadn't forgotten their standoff this morning.

Samara scowled at him. "Look, I hate this situation more than you do, believe me. But, he's going to be more useful to your group. You have more people and there's only one person that can actually take down a walker. Alistair can smell them before they even get near."

Daryl's eyes settled on the dog trailing the marshal. With this new position as group leader he would have to keep everyone safe even if he didn't exactly want to. He wasn't leader material. And having the dog watch out for the entire group would cut his vigilance in half.

"Fine." The man grunted. "What are his commands? 'Walk up' and 'find'?"

Samara let out a breath of relief. "'Find' for wendigos. Don't use walker, he doesn't understand that word. 'Cast and hold' to gather and keep the walkers in one area. He'll circle around them, keep them occupied while you destroy them. 'At me' when you want him to come back to you. 'Get back' when you want him away from a walker or just out of your way. He knows the basic ones like sit and heel and such, so there's no need to worry about that. Don't tell him to attack. I don't know if animals can get infected." She thought of any other useful command, but she couldn't find none. "Also, say his name before the command, he understands it better this way."

_Find. Cast and hold. At me. Get back._ _Name before command_. Daryl nodded in understanding.

"Will he even listen? I don't exactly sound like you."

"He likes male southern drawls. I think it reminds him of his dead owners." She gave the dog a look. He became attached to Rick during their journey to Atlanta and she's seen him trail either him or Shane on occasion. He tried to follow Daryl at one point, but the redneck shooed him away.

Samara crouched down next to the dog. "Alistair, follow him." She pointed to the man beside her. Alistair gave the hunter a cowed look and whined lowly, his ears flattening. "Don't worry, he won't bite you…I think."

Daryl's frown deepened. Devils with pointy pitchforks came to mind.

"Just follow and listen to him." And with that Samara rose to her feet and walked back to Rick and Shane.

Daryl and the dog stared at each other. Alistair lowered his head and slowly turned over onto his back, belly up. Daryl rolled his eyes at his submissiveness and walked away. The last thing he was going to do was pet the damn mutt.

* * *

Samara waited on the steps with Shane and Carl for Rick. He was inside the church, probably talking to JC or praying or whatever white people did in churches. Samara was pacing in front of the two, fiddling with the bottle of Ibuprofens. She had taken one just a few minutes ago as the last pill was losing its numbing affect.

"How long do you think dad's gonna take?" Carl looked over his shoulder towards the opened red doors.

"Not long." Shane ruffled his hair. "He needs his time right now."

Carl leaned on his elbows and watched the marshal twirl the orange plastic. "Samara, why don't you want to search for Sophia?" He figured that out from the way she grumbled and groaned. He found it strange because, in his view, adults were supposed to care about missing children.

The marshal paused. "It's not that I don't, I just…"

Now, Samara was in a bit of a conundrum. How could she answer a question like that to a kid without sounding like an awful person? So, she resolved to give him the only answer she could conjure.

"It's complicated."

Shane shook his head and addressed the boy. "Look Carl, Samara had her own plans made even before Sophia went missin'. Sometimes, people don't like it when their plans get screwed up."

"But Sophia's twelve. She's just a kid. Aren't officers supposed to search for missin' people?"

_This is just getting better and better_, Samara grimaced.

"Yeah, they are. But the world's changed. Not everyone's followin' the old rules anymore. Some, just don't care any longer."

Samara gave the deputy a small glower.

He shrugged. Shane wasn't obliged to lie to the boy for her. She made her own bed, she better lay in it.

"Look kid," Samara tried to show on her face as much remorse as possible…which probably came out more as a scowl than anything. "You have to understand, I don't exactly know any of you except for your father and even that is marginally. You're not my group, I have no obligations to any of you."

"But, don't you care?" Those puppy-dog eyes made guilt crawl into her chest.

"It's sad that the girl is missing and I'm sorry for her mother. I sympathize with her, but don't expect anything else from me."

He lowered his head and distractedly tried to wipe the dirt of his fingers. "Do you think we'll find her?"

Samara threw Shane a peek. He was giving her a 'you-better-answer-that-question-positively' look otherwise he would give her a berating she'd never heard before.

"…Sure."

Just then, Rick stepped out of the church and joined the trio. Samara pocketed her bottle and observed the grim look on the sheriff's face.

"Get what you needed?" Shane asked his friend.

"Guess I'll find out."

* * *

Samara was ahead of the group with Rick while Shane and Carl were behind. Her eyes barely unglued from the ground, always searching for signs of life. They had decided to do a wide half-circle around the church area and were now an hour into their search.

"Anything?"

She shook her head. "Found some deer tracks, though."

Rick sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead. A headache was starting to form in his temple, the stress overwhelming him.

Samara noticed his dejection with a frown.

"You need to stop blaming yourself." She spoke as low as she could so the others wouldn't hear. Shane probably could since he was being too oblivious to their words.

"It's my fault that all this happened."

"No, it's not." Samara scowled in frustration. His altruistic nature was starting to get on her nerves. "You did all you could have done considering the shitty situation. Nobody could have done anything better."

"There had to be more."

Samara sighed. "Sheriff, you keep adding up that stress, you're going to give yourself ulcers."

"She's right, man." Shane looked worriedly at Rick's back. This entire situation was weighting heavy on his shoulders and wasn't sharing any of it. He was hoping for that one miracle that will make everything right. Shane doubted that it would ever happen since miracles didn't come easily these days, if at all.

Rick didn't answer, he just nudged Samara forward.

While Samara didn't particularly care what happened to these people, she had a soft spot for the sheriff. He was a strong man and seeing him break at the seams wasn't fun to watch. It was quite sad actually.

Samara froze half-way from plating her right foot on the ground. Her hand shot up and motioned for the other to stop.

"What is it?"

"I heard something. Wait here."

Samara took out her silenced gun and walked ahead, careful of any branches or twigs she might step on. Passing the two feet high bushes on her left, she came upon a sight that left her _famished_.

There was a buck foraging not five feet from them.

With a small smirk, she motioned to the other to come forward silently. Once they saw the animal, the tension defused like a balloon. It was a welcome sight, this.

Samara had a different idea as she aimed her gun towards the buck's head. Deer meat was good for the body.

Rick waved a hand at Samara to dissuade her from her next course of action. He motioned towards his son who was staring bright eyed at the animal. This was the first time he came close to a deer and Rick didn't want it ruined by Samara lodging a bullet in the woodland animal's cranium.

Samara, Rick and Shane stayed put and watched as Carl moved slowly forward, getting as close to the buck as possible. The smile on his face made the men reminiscence of a time not long ago when things weren't as difficult and the world wasn't as dangerous.

Even Samara cracked a small smile. The boy and the deer. It reminded her of the childhood stories her grandfather told.

It felt strange, the sensation formed in that small area. As if time had stopped and they were in a different pocket of space. There was no apocalypse or lost little girls they had to find, just the four of them and the animal.

But like all things good, they have to come to an end.

And this end was explosive.

_Bang._

The adults watched stunned as Carl fell to the ground unmoving. The buck followed the boy's lead and toppled, blood leaking from a wound on its upper torso.

Time unfroze.

"No…no, no, no!" Rick ran to his son. He felt like the world had just crashed over his head reducing him to sand grains. "Carl? Carl!"

Rick was crouched over his son, checking him over. Blood was seeping fast into his shirt, the bullet having perforated his side.

"Carl! Oh Christ, he's not movin'." Rick looked at his best friend with wide teary eyes.

Shane crouched to the boy's other side and checked his pulse. It was still there, but beating erratically. "He's still breathin'. Put pressure on his wound."

Samara passed the three of them hurriedly and searched for the source of the bullet. She found the culprit a few feet in front of them in the form of an overweight man in hunter gear holding a rifle. The stranger came out of the foliage, watching the scene with horror painted all over his face.

"Put the rifle down." The marshal aimed her gun and hissed severely. "Put it down now!"

"Oh, God. I didn't—I didn't see him!" The man stuttered as the horror grew. "The buck—"

"I said now or I swear to the gods I'll shoot your kneecaps off!" Samara bellowed at this point. _This big fucker better listen or he'll be limping for the rest of his short life._

The man shakily lowered the rifle and put his hands up, his eye never leaving the bleeding boy.

"What did you do?" Rick's eyes found the man and yelled, anger and sorrow cracking his voice. "What did you do!?"

Samara picked up his rifle and slung it over her shoulder. Shane joined her not a moment later and was furiously aiming his shotgun at the man's head.

"Oh God, no. Carl…" At this point, any strong front that the sheriff had fell as his boy laid on the ground bleeding to death. His hands shook severely as he applied pressure on the wound.

The stranger was shaking his head in stunned disbelief. The only thing that circled in his head was that this couldn't be happening.

"I—Hershel, he can—" The man took a deep breath and spoke more steadily. "There's a farm not far away from here. We can take your boy there. My father in law, he can help."

"You better fuckin' hope he can." Shane growled. His vision was swimming from the rage and unshed tears. "Rick, wrap your belt around the wound! We need to move, now!"

Rick did as told, taking off his belt with shaking fingers. At first try, he failed. With a frustrated howl he practically ripped the belt off the loops and wrapped it tightly around Carl's side.

"Where's the farm?" Samara asked somberly.

"About t-two miles north from here."

"Fuck, you call that close?!" Shane spat and nudged the man forward. "Show us the way!"

Two miles was too long on foot. Even in a fast run. It would take about twenty minutes considering they had to carry Carl.

But Rick was not deterred. He picked up his son and started running.

* * *

A lush green field with a white farmhouse came in Samara's view as she stepped out of the forest. Rick was nowhere to be seen, most likely having entered the house by now.

She and Shane were flanking the stranger—Otis—on both sides. The marshal wasn't worried that the man would run off. The guilt alone made him run. Unfortunately, his weight wasn't helping and he'd stumbled and tripped a few times before regaining his pace. This prompted Rick to leave them behind as the three of them were too slow.

With her speed, Samara was feeling her lower back throbbing, but ignored it as best as possible. This wasn't the time to complain about her pains.

"Move, you shithead!" Shane shouted at Otis when he slowed down again. With force, he brought the heavy man to his feet and pushed him forward.

"Dammit, come on!" Shane took a hold of his arm and then shouted after the marshal who was slightly ahead of them. "Samara, help me!"

The woman backtracked, gripped Otis's free arm and hurried him to their destination as fast as the man's legs would allow.

Once passed the fence, they tiredly reached the residence. Samara breathed deeply and placed her hands on the small of her back, while craning her neck. She could practically feel her bones creak and her muscles stretch. Her eyes popped open when Rick exited the house not a minute later, his shirt drenched in blood and his face pale.

The man was in shock, his eyes never registering fully what was happening in front of him.

"He's alive?" Otis asked nervously as Rick wiped his brow and left smudges of Carl's blood on his face. "Is your boy still alive?"

Shane handed Samara the bag of guns and took out a piece of red cloth out of it. He climbed the steps of the front porch and stood toe to toe with Rick. With the red material he cautiously wiped off the blood painted on the stunned man. Rick barely moved, only swaying with the motions. Shane placed the cloth in Rick's hands and the sheriff just stared at it, not knowing what to do. Tears sprang to his eyes again as he noticed all the blood on him.

Samara averted her eyes. This was painful to watch.

"Okay, I'll take it from you." Shane tried to placate him and took the offending piece out of his hands. "Where is he? Is Carl okay?"

Rick broke the numbness encompassing him and his expression cracked, a tear rolling down his cheek. Shane placed his hand on the man's shoulder and guided him inside. Otis followed with Samara reluctantly. She watched Grimes' back with dread. The sheriff was in a _really_ bad shape. If his son died, he would probably lose his mind at this point.

Samara's eyes flitted once she entered the house. As expected, it was decorated like all farmhouses. The furniture seemed like from a different age and the floorboards creaked. It told her that the farm had been on this land for quite some time. They entered a small bedroom where an old man was hunched over Carl with a towel over the wound. There were two other women in the room, the young brunette was attaching an IV bag to a lamp while the older blonde one was standing out of the way and watching the boy with a pitying look.

Samara leaned her free shoulder against the door entrance, one hand clutching the gun bag tightly and the other resting on the gun handle at her thigh. Her attention was divided between the happenings in the room and the rest of the house. She wanted to be prepared if someone else was in the house as she was greeted not a few seconds ago with two new people—a teenage girl and boy. As such, she kept everyone in her field of vision.

"What's his blood type?" The southern drawl was strong in the old man's voice.

"A-positive. S-Same as mine." Rick stumbled on his words, his eyes glued to his pale son.

"That's fortunate. Don't wander far. I'm gonna need you."

"I'm type O." The marshal declared as she gave Carl a fleeting glance. "…If that helps."

The old man—Hershel, if she remembered the name correctly—finally noticed the new female occupant. "It would. Type O is universal. Do you have any medical conditions I need to know about?"

"No. I—Shit." She remembered the drugs she took. "I'm on Ibuprofens and I think there's still some Doxycycline left in my system."

The man shook his head. "Then no, you can't help. His weakened system could react to them." His eyes moved from Samara to Otis. "What happened?"

"I was trackin' a buck." The man started, still in dumbfounded shock. "Bullet went clean through it."

The old man nodded in understanding. "The deer slowed the bullet down, which certainly saved his life, but it did not go through clean. It broke up into pieces." Hershel sighed wearily. "If I can get the bullet fragments out...and I'm countin' six."

At this point Otis moved from the door to the older blonde woman. He tried to explain to her as she wrapped her arms around him. "I never saw him. Not until he was on the ground."

"Lori doesn't know." Rick said suddenly. His wife was miles away from here, oblivious to their son possibly dying. "My wife doesn't know."

Shane took a hold of his shoulder and whispered comfortingly into his ear something too low for Samara to hear. Rick hid his face behind his hand, weeping inconsolably. He was tottering on the verge of a break-down.

"My wife doesn't know."

* * *

Samara, Rick and Shane were outside the room. Hershel had shooed everyone away except for the blonde woman so he could work on the boy without a crowd breathing down his neck. Both men were seated on the couch, while Samara was on the lone chair. Nobody was talking. There wasn't much to talk right now, the only thing they could do was wait. And waiting was always the hardest part.

The situation had escalated from the girl missing to the other child of the group dying in the room next to them. The waiting, the boy dying…it brought out some demons Samara had buried very deep inside and if she stayed one more second in this house she was going to vomit.

Rising up, she left both men and exited the house. Otis was on the steps, looking emptily at the field ahead.

"How is he?" He asked once he saw the woman descend the stairs.

"There's no news yet." Samara lit up her last cigarette and shakily exhaled the nicotine. Usually cigarettes helped in calming her nerves, but right now it did squat. Her fingers grazed her jean pocket. Her photos were there. The urge to get them out and stroke the 2D faces of her father and husband was strong.

The man let out a deep breath and ran his sweaty palms over his face. "I'm sorry. I never wanted this to happen."

The marshal nodded faintly. "I'm pretty sure if you had shot him on purpose, you would be dead by now." Either by Rick or Shane's hand.

"If that boy dies, I—"

"Let's hope that doesn't happen. For all our sakes." Samara slid the man's rifle from her shoulder and gave it to him. "Here."

The man gripped the rifle and gave it a disgruntled look. He shot the boy with it.

"That blonde. She your wife?" Samara tried to take the man's and her mind off the shooting.

"Yeah." He said vaguely. "Her name's Patricia."

Muffled screams erupted from the house.

"Dad!" Carl's pain-filled cry reached their ears.

Samara took off her sunglasses and ran a hand through her hair. She just wanted to bolt from here. Run as far away as possible.

"Stop! You're killin' him!" Rick shouted to someone.

"Jesus." Otis placed his palm over his mouth in watched the door to the house with anxiety.

Samara closed her eyes, took another drag from her cigarette and tried unsuccessfully to block out the screams.

* * *

Samara and Otis entered the house once the screaming stopped, thinking the worse. As it was, Carl passed out from the pain. Rick was currently donating blood to his son in waves. He would bleed himself dry if he knew that that would save his son.

The marshal was waiting in the living room with Otis and the brunette girl—Maggie, as she introduced herself—when Rick and Shane came out.

"How's the boy?" Samara asked. Carl wasn't dead yet, otherwise Rick would be tearing down the walls.

Shane leaned against the wall with a sigh. "He's stable, for now."

The occupants of the room breathed more easily. It was better than nothing.

Rick was seated on the lone chair, exhausted from donating his blood and from the pressure. "Lori has to be here, Shane. She has to know."

"I get that. I'm gonna handle it...But you've gotta handle your end."

"My-my end?"

"Your end is being here, for your son." The deputy crouched next to Rick. "Even if he didn't need your blood to survive, there is no way I'd let you walk out that door. Man, I'd break your legs if you tried."

Rick hung his head, tears gathering in his eyes again.

"If something happened to him and you weren't here...If he slipped away while you were gone, you would never forgive yourself for that, and neither would Lori."

"You're right." Rick said after a pause and wiped his palms on his pant legs.

"When was I ever wrong?" Shane tried to deflate the situation with a bit of humor but it didn't work. Rick didn't twitch a facial muscle.

"You know, when you were in that hospital." Shane caught Rick's attention and moved closer to his friend. "You should've seen Lori. The strength of that woman. You can't imagine it."

There was obvious pride in Shane's voice. Samara could only think that if Lori had been that strong then she wouldn't have slept with him. But then again, people have funny ways of coping with heartache.

"See, that's what you gotta have now. Carl needs that from you. So, you wire yourself tight, my friend." Their foreheads connected, displaying that emotion fostered between them since high school—the deep bond of friendship and trust.

Samara shifted in her seat, not comfortable. This wasn't a sight she or the other two were supposed to see, in her opinion. This was private.

"You've got the hard part. You just leave the rest to me, okay?"

Rock nodded and spoke humbly. "All right."

"Rick…" Samara started, catching the attention of the occupants of the room. "I could go back after Lori. Bring her here."

"You would do that?" The man sniffled and Samara had to avert her gaze to his cheek. The force behind his bloodshot eyes cowed her.

"Yeah." She gave him a weak smile. "I'm the only one that can find the way back."

The sheriff nodded and spoke hoarsely. "Thank you, Samara."

"You see? Everything has a way of workin' out." Shane squeezed the sheriff's shoulder and gave Samara a nod. It was one out of respect for standing up in a crisis like this.

The marshal wasn't moved by it, though. The decision to go back was more for herself than anything else. It would give her ample time to clear her head of dark memories and unwanted old emotions.

"Do you know how to ride?" The brunette rose from her seat and stepped next to older woman.

"A horse?" Samara's face fell and a flash of fear passed her green eyes. "Yeah, I know how to ride one."

"You can take one of the horses." Maggie looked at her resolutely. "This way you can travel faster."

"Uh…" The marshal's eyes traveled from Maggie to Rick. Her fear of the large beasts was overshadowed by Rick's grief and all-over emotions.

"…Alright."

The door to the adjunct room opened and Hershel stepped out. A towel was in his hands and he was wiping the blood of them. "He's out of danger for the moment, but I need to remove those remainin' fragments."

"How? You saw how he was." Rick asked.

"I know, and that was the shallowest one. I need to go deeper to get the others." The old sighed. "There's more_."_

Rick closed his eyes in trepidation, but he nodded for Hershel to continue.

"His belly's distended, his pressure's droppin', which means there's internal bleedin'. A fragment must have nicked one of the blood vessels. I have to open him up, find the bleeder and stitch it. And he can't move while I'm in there, at all. If he reacts the same as before, I'll sever an artery and he'll be dead in minutes." Hershel's tone left no room for argument. "To even try this, I have to put him under. But if I do, he won't be able to breathe on his own. Same bad results."

"What'll it take?"

Otis stepped forward, his gaze on his father-in-law. "You need a respirator. What else?"

"The tube that goes with it, extra surgical supplies, drapes, sutures. If I had all that, I could try to save him." Considering the boy's age and the circumstances, Hershel didn't know if he would survive the procedure either ways.

"Nearest hospital went up in flames a month ago." It then dawned on Otis. "The high school…"

Hershel nodded, his mind already on that place. "They set up a FEMA shelter there. They would have everythin' we need."

"Place was overrun last time I saw it. You couldn't get near it." The burly man shifted uneasily. "Maybe it's better now."

"I said leave the rest to me." Shane sighed, and gave a weak smile to his friend. The implications of what they were talking were huge. "Is it too late to take that back?"

"I hate you goin' alone." Rick gave his friend a concerned look. If the high school was overrun, who knew what would happen to his friend. If he got overwhelmed—

Shane shook his head. He was alright with it, as much as he could be. "Doc, why don't you do me a list, draw me a map."

"You won't need a map." Otis stepped forward. "I'll take you there. Ain't but five miles."

"Otis, no." Patricia gave her husband a reprimanding look.

"Honey, I'm responsible for this." The man said stubbornly. "I ain't gonna sit here while this fella takes this on alone. I'll be all right."

"Are you sure about this?" Shane asked. Considering the way they ran over here, Otis wasn't exactly built for endurance. If something happened, he didn't want this man's blood on his hands.

"Do you even know what any of the stuff he's talking about looks like?"

Shane brows rose. Now that he asked—"Not really."

"I've been a volunteer EMT, I do." He paused on each other occupant of the room. "Now, we can talk about this 'till next Sunday, or we could just go do it real quick."

"I'll take quick." Shane smiled faintly.

"I should thank you." Rick gave the man short nod. He still couldn't look him straight in the eyes. Not yet.

"Wait 'till that boy of yours is up and around, then we'll talk." Otis then turned on his heel and walked deeper into the house. "I'll gather some things, meet you outside."

"Hey, come on." Maggie touched Samara's arm and motioned to the exit. "I'll take you to the stables."

With a nod, Samara followed the younger female, but was stopped at the threshold by a hand gripping her arm.

"Samara, wait." Rick was beside her and he was panting faintly. He was really weak from the blood-loss. "Tell Lori…" He tried to articulate, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth. "Tell her that—"

"Don't worry, Grimes." She grabbed his wrist and gently disentangled it from hers. "I got this."

His hand found hers and gave it a faint squeeze. Samara's brow twitched. _Too personal…_

With a dry smile, she exited the house.

* * *

Samara watched the large horse with a distrusting glare. She could almost see the way its mind was conjuring up plans to throw her off its back.

"Are you sure you can ride one?" Maggie asked as she settled the harnesses and saddle on the horse. The woman was standing at a distance from them and was watching the animal like it was about to attack her at any second.

"Yeah, I just haven't ridden one since high-school." Samara stepped closer, vigil of the way the horse's eyes followed her. She used to love riding that is until one of her grandparent's horses kicked her in the stomach. Never touched one since.

Maggie sighed and gave her a doubtful stare. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Samara straightened her shoulders and moved forward, helping Maggie with the saddle. "No, I can do this." She wasn't about to be mollycoddled by a damn twenty year old. She could do this.

"It's like ridin' a bike." With one last belt, Maggie patted the horse on the neck. "It'll come to you as you go."

_I hope so._ Samara breathed in deeply. She placed her foot in one of the stirrups, gripped the pommel of the saddle and hoisted herself up. With a grunt she seated herself on the horse.

The horse gave a shake of its mane and backed up a little, unused to the foreign rider.

"Woah. Woah." Samara gripped the reins of the horse, stopping its movements. Sweat was starting to accumulate on her brow. "Like riding a bike. Like riding a bike…" She repeated to herself.

Maggie stepped closer and gave the rider her full attention. "You said your group is back on the highway snarl, right? Tell them to backtrack to Fairburn road. Two miles down is a mailbox with the name Greene on it. Follow the dirt road and you'll come up at the farm. And tell them to shut the gate on their way in."

Samara nodded and Maggie moved away from the animal. With a heavy breath, the marshal nudged the horse in its sides. The animal neighed and started trotting.

Without a goodbye to the girl, Samara rode out of the stable at half speed. Once the horse didn't show any signs of hostility and Samara's confidence grew, she nudged it harder. The horses speed grew into a dash.

_Tonenili God of Water, watch over me. And if this beast even thinks about throwing me off, send a lightning bolt down on its head._

* * *

Daryl was ahead of the group with the dog a few paces ahead. Up until now, the dog had been nothing but obedient. He listened to every command and didn't stray from the group.

The hunter's mind was still on the gunshot. Whatever happened back there, it couldn't have been walkers. Lori was right in that regard, neither of the three lawmen would have shot off a round if there had been a walker or even a few. The possibility of someone else firing at the other group was real. But then the others would have opened fire in retaliation.

Daryl scoffed. Maybe the marshal shot someone. He wouldn't put it past her.

"How much farther?" Lori asked from the back of the group.

"Maybe a hundred yards as the crow flies." Daryl answered. They still had some way to go.

"Too bad we're not crows." Andrea sighed. She was tired as hell and her legs were only going with the motion now. It didn't help when she got tangled up in a thick spider web. "Shit. As the crow flies, my ass."

Alistair up ahead froze suddenly and growled low. That made Daryl stand at attention, crossbow ready. The mutt caught scent of something. Daryl motioned to the others to stop.

Everyone slowed in their walk and listened. The faint sound of rustling and low hisses came from ahead. Daryl motioned for them to stay put while he nudged the dog forward.

"Alistair, cast and hold."

The Collie didn't wait for a second command and trotted forward silently. He knew his duty and Daryl watched as three walkers came into the clearing. Alistair caught the walkers attention by barking and growling at them. The rotten bastards forgot about the living people in front and shuffled after the dog. Alistair circled out of their reach, confusing them and providing Daryl the time to launch an arrow into one of the walkers head's. Glenn stepped forward and rammed his machete in the second walker, splitting its head in two. The last walker dismissed the dog in favor for the humans. It shambled forward with renewed vigor and headed towards the hunter. Daryl already had a new arrow reloaded and aimed at the walkers head.

A scream disrupted him from pulling the trigger. Looking behind he didn't see Andrea with the group. She was too far away from the others, fighting off a walker with a small hunting knife.

_Shit!_

Without wasting a minute, he launched the arrow into the walker coming after him and ran back. The others weren't far behind, already thinking that the worst possible thing happened. Alistair was ahead of the group, barking loudly. He tried to divert the walker's attention, but the walking corpse was too focused on Andrea to care about anything else.

The blonde woman was on the ground screaming hysterically, kicking the walker as it tried to claw at her.

_Goddammit! _He couldn't lose a person, not now. He was in charge of this goddamn group; he wasn't going to let anyone die.

Daryl never came close to the walker, because in that moment a horse appeared out from between the thick trees and galloped furiously towards the walker. With a swing of the rider's machete, the walker's head was cleaver in two.

"Holy shit, that was close!" Samara heaved as she observed the downed walker. A few seconds more and the blonde would have been dinner.

Andrea breathed in large gulps of air, the adrenaline and near death experience making her whole body shake. She sagged boneless on the ground, needing a few minutes until she could form a coherent thought.

Samara reined the horse to a stop and looked around for the others. "Lori!"

Lori, Daryl, Glen and Carol finally reached the two women. The others looked astounded at the marshal atop the horse. Where the hell had she come from, and whose horse was that? And more importantly, where were the others?

"Lori, you need to come with me. There was an accident. Carl's been shot."

Lori froze in numb shock. She couldn't comprehend what Samara just said. Carl…her son…was shot? What—

"He's still alive, but you have to come now. Rick needs you." Samara interrupted her racing thoughts and Lori wasted no time in throwing the backpack off her and stepping towards the horse. Her brain was still having problems understanding what Samara said, but her whole body reacted to the marshal's urgency.

"What the hell happened?" Daryl stopped next to the large animal and took a hold of the reins so Samara couldn't leave without an explanation.

Samara pulled the shaking mother atop the horse and her somber gaze landed on Daryl.

"No time to explain." She tried to pull the reins out of the man's hands. "Just get to the others on the highway and backtrack to Fairburn road. Drive two miles down until you see a mailbox with the name Greene on it. Follow the dirt road and you'll reach a white farm. Everyone's there."

Daryl let go of the reins, knowing that this was a much as he was going to get from her. Samara turned her gaze to Glenn and threw a set of keys at him. The young man caught it with a fumble.

"Bring my car also. It's the Blue Volkswagen."

Without further ado, she nudged the horse back to where she came from. Alistair ran after the horse, not even stopping when Samara shouted at him. He wasn't going to stay behind this time.

The now smaller group watched the horse's departure with either shock or lack of sensation. Another disaster befell this group.

Daryl ran a hand over his sweaty bangs. At this point, they had one missing girl, a boy on the verge of dying, a suicidal woman and a man with a bleeding arm. Christ, one more disaster and this whole group will break apart.

"Come on, let's go." Daryl rounded up the others and helped Andrea to her feet. She was still on the ground, but fortunately the unsteadiness subsided and she was a lot calmer now.

"That's it? Samara just rides here, tells everyone that Carl was shot, and we're just supposed to move on?" Glenn's gaze riveted from the location the horse was last seen to Daryl.

"What the hell do you want me to do, chinaman?" The hunter turned his frown on the Asian. "Run after the horse like the dog? Be my guest."

"No, I just—" Glenn tightened his grip on the machete and kicked a small rock out of frustration. "I feel useless."

_Join the club._

Daryl took the lead again and marched onwards. There was nothing he could do right now except move forward.

* * *

**Foot Note:** I don't know if I'm right or just being paranoid, but Samara seems to share many personality traits with Daryl. The last thing I want is for her to turn into a female version of him. Am I wrong?


	5. Back to School

**Note:** In response to one of my reviewers, Quest, I understand your relief for seeing a strong female character. Trust me when I say this, I pretty much wrote this fic because of that. I've read so many TWD stories with whinny or weak women that always needed saving, that it just angered me. I'm not saying that Samara doesn't have her weak moments, but considering her background she is better at not showing them. If that makes her a far-fetched character, then so be it. I rather she be like that, than useless.

End of rant.

**PS:** In regards to 'I Walk the Line', I just read that it's rather hard to make cars explode. Mythbusters did an episode on it and even they couldn't do it, at least not with bullets. And I suspect that Molotovs would just set it on fire. Well, that certainly fucks up that part of the story. Oops. Let's just chalk it up to some good ol' luck and leave it at that.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Lori watched the scenery pass her by in high speed. Samara was pushing the horse to its limit in reaching the farm. Alistair was barely keeping up; he was a few meters behind them, but was unrelenting in his chase.

Her arms were tightly gripping the woman in front. Lori needed something to keep her anchored right now, and Samara was the only rock in the storm raging inside her.

"Samara, what happened?" Her voice shook at the end. She had tried keeping quiet, but now she couldn't anymore. If she didn't learn more about Carl, the dam was going to burst.

"Everything will be explained at the farm." Samara shouted to her, the wind muffling her voice. "Don't talk. I need to concentrate on where we're going."

Lori's grip tightened and her voice broke, tears gathering in her eyes. "At least tell me that my son is alive."

In her jumbled mind, she forgot that Samara had already explained this.

"He's alive. Just loosen your hold a bit, you're crushing my stomach."

The woman's arms slackened and she whispered an apology in her shoulder. That apology kept being repeated like a mantra almost unconsciously.

Lori didn't know how long it passed as her face stayed hidden on Samara's shoulder. She had tried keeping her mind as clear as possible, but it failed almost immediately. Her thoughts always returned to Carl.

"There it is."

Lori was shaken out of her stupor and looked over the marshal's shoulder. They were out of the forest and into a green field. Ahead was the farmhouse. Lori could see two figures on the front porch.

"Go faster." Lori's eyes were glued to the two people. She knew that one of them was her husband.

Samara shook her head. "I push this horse any more, he'll die."

Once passed the wire fences, Samara slowed the horse down to a trot and finally stopped a few paces from the house. Lori's eyes widened when she saw the blood on her husband's shirt. It was so much of it she started to doubt Samara's sincerity.

Lori didn't wait for Samara to help her dismount the horse, she just jumped right off it. Once her feet touched the ground, Lori's façade broke and the tears poured out in streams. Rick caught her and held her tightly against him, whispering apologies to her.

"Where is he?" Lori whispered roughly between sobs. "Where's my boy?"

Samara watched as the two disheartened parents ran into the house. Alistair had finally caught up to her and was panting like a marathon runner. With a deep breath, Samara nudged the horse towards the stables.

* * *

The marshal waited with Alistair in the living room for any sign of life from the sick room. Maggie had helped her in dissembling the reins and belts off the horse before stepping into the house. Despite the situation, the young woman had given her a bit of a tongue lashing for the horse's health state. He had been near dropping dead and Samara apologized for pushing the horse to the extremes. She had learned from the girl that Shane and Otis had left a few minutes after her, and there had been no sign of them since.

Samara was reclined against the soft couch, keeping her back as straight as possible. Now that she was off that monster, her back was on flames. She was pretty sure that her lower back was swollen judging by the hard, fleshy bump. Every time she poked it, it felt like being zapped with a cattle prodder.

The marshal had taken a couple of more Ibuprofens for the pain. Alistair was sprawled on the floor next to the sofa, his sad eyes watching the closed door. The scent of death coming from the next room dampened his mood.

Hershel had exited the room a few minutes ago. It seems nothing changed in the boy's welfare. He was still weak and he still needed the surgical procedure.

Lori and Rick came out of the room. Rick was still faint from donating blood as his wife helped him walk down the hall. Samara stayed put and listened to the conversation the Grimes had with Hershel. It was hushed, but she caught some parts of their talk.

One of them that she heard clearly was where Hershel said that he was a veterinarian, not a doctor.

The marshal huffed in bewildered hilarity. Her pale green gaze turned to the dog.

"Well, if you ever get hurt at least you're set."

Samara heard a clatter from where the conversing trio was. Someone either moved furniture or a chair fell. It was probably Rick fainting or something similar. If she was in his position and just found out that her child's continued existence was in the hands of an animal doctor, she'd also feel lightheaded.

Samara exited the house with Alistair. The dog rushed out of the door and down the steps into the fields. He probably had his doggy business to do. Samara had learned from Otis the names of the other occupants of the farmhouse. Jimmy was the young man and Beth was the youngest of the women. Patricia, Maggie and Beth were Hershel's daughters, and Jimmy was or had been Beth's boyfriend before the world ended.

The Greene girls were sitting on the front porch. The older woman's eyes followed the dirt road, searching for any signs of the blue truck. It was near dusk and they hadn't returned.

"It's been hours, they should have been back by now." Patricia crossed her arms. She felt like she was going insane from the wait.

Maggie rubbed her back. "It's not that easy. They have to search for a dozen different supplies and if there are those _things_ around, it's gonna take a while."

"Maggie's right." Beth gave her older sister a small smile. "Don't worry about it. Otis knows what he's doing."

"I should have never let him go." The older woman shook her head.

"He owed the Grimes at least that much." Samara descended the stairs. "Eye for an eye."

The Greene sisters watched the woman with uneasiness. They didn't like the sight of all those guns strapped to her. All these people were strangers to the family. _Heavily_ armed strangers.

"How many of you are there? Your group, I mean." Maggie asked her curiously.

Samara scoffed. "They're not my group. They're just some people I'm stuck with for the time being. But to answer your question, there are six others. Two females and four males.

"What happened to your face?" Beth asked as she stared at all the scars on the woman's face. She looked like she had fought a cat.

"Beth." Patricia reprimanded her. Beth just shrugged her shoulders, she didn't see any harm in asking.

"Had a car accident a few days ago." Samara answered coolly. She then remembered something. The reason that brought them into this mess. "You didn't by any chance see a little girl wander around?"

"A girl?" Beth gave her a strange look.

"Yeah. Blonde hair, twelve years old. Name's Sophia."

Maggie shook her head. "You're the first people we see in months. Is that why you were in the forest? Searchin' for her?"

Samara nodded. "She went missing a day ago."

"I'm sorry." Patricia gave the woman a sympathetic smile, but Samara had no reaction to it.

"You can tell that to her mother, not me. She's the one that needs it."

"Maybe Otis saw her. He spends more time in the forest then any of us. You can ask him when he comes back." Beth told her.

_If he comes back_, Samara thought.

Patricia rubbed her arms. The afternoon heat was finally starting to cool off. "The people you travel with, are they good people?"

The marshal paused. Did they mean good Christians or just good in general? It was hard to tell with rural folks. "Define good."

"Will they try to cause any trouble when they come here?" Maggie clarified with a small frown. While she might not know how to handle a gun, she could swing a bat like it was nobody's business. She wouldn't go down without a fight. "We won't stand for that, just so you know."

"Don't worry, they're not the type." The group was so morally rooted that it didn't even come into question.

"What about you?"

Samara smirked grimly. "I'm a different type of breed. But as I said, you have nothing to worry."

The marshal looked over the fields and saw Alistair prancing around happily. It was such a quiet place, this farm. Any other time, it would have been a great place to grow old with a spouse.

"Have you people been here this entire time?"

"Since the sickness? Yes." Patricia nodded and sighed. "We're waitin' for it to pass over."

Samara gave the women a bizarre look. "Pass over?"

Beth shrugged. "It's like the bird flu, right? If you give it enough time, it's going to slow down and die."

"What?" Samara had a hard time believing what the girl just said. If they thought that this apocalypse is just a passing fancy, then what did they think of the undead shambling around the world. That they were _sick_?

"What exactly do you think happened to the people that are now ravenous flesh-eating monsters?"

Maggie was the one that answered and she wasn't happy. "They're not monsters. They're just sick people."

The marshal froze. About a half a minute passed before she snorted and then laughed lowly. The laugh soon turned into a horrifying cackle. The three women watched with shocked and chagrined expressions as the marshal bended over and laughed her ass off.

"Why are you laughin'?" Maggie's lips were pursed angrily. She stood up and watched the woman with a glare. "I don't find anythin' funny about this."

"Oh, I disagree. This is hilarious." Samara's laughing turned into a small titter. "I thought the group was bad, but this is just…beyond what I ever expected."

Sick people…Now that was really funny. What did they think, that the _sick_ would be cured of their deadness and cannibalism with a vaccine?

These 'sick' people are dead. Not in dead tired or so lazy that they appear dead. But very _very_ dead. Only difference is, they are still walking this earth. And not in a Revelation, Jesus rose from his cave sort of way, but in an 'I'll-eat-any-living-being-that-is-still-breathing'.

This is no sickness that will pass. You cannot heal rotten flesh.

The walking dead can only be saved with a well placed bullet in their head.

That was it.

But Samara wasn't going to waste time explaining this. She had better things to do than lecture backwoods people…like sleep.

* * *

The marshal and Alistair had stood out of the Grimes' and Hershel's way. She didn't know anything about medical practice and she wasn't part of the family, so she wasn't needed.

Day had turned into night and Shane and Otis still hadn't come back. With each hour, Lori and Rick became more and more worried and their son became more and more fatigued. She had already heard the Grimes fight over Rick trying to leave to search for Shane. Lori had immediately shut it down and with good reason. Rick could barely walk let alone drive.

Nobody from the highway arrived at the farm and Samara wondered if the redneck fucked up her directions. She wouldn't be surprised.

Samara was sleeping on the sofa when she felt something shake her lightly. One of her hands immediately unholstered a gun while the other gripped the foreign appendage.

"Jesus!"

Samara's vision focused on the sight of Lori bended over her with wide petrified eyes. The marshal's gun was pressed against her forehead and her wrist was caught in an iron grip. Samara cursed lowly before holstering her gun and letting go of Lori's wrist.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Lori stepped away from the woman while massaging her wrist. The marshal had one hell of a strong grip.

Samara gave the woman a tired glare and rose to a sitting position. "Don't you know better than waking up an armed person?"

"If I knew you were gonna react like that, I would have thought twice."

"What is it?" Samara yawned and looked towards the room where Carl was. "Has he gotten worse?"

"No…not yet." The woman shook her head dejectedly before giving the marshal a serious look. "Rick and I, we need to talk to you."

"About?"

The woman motioned to follow. Samara rose to her feet with a groan and Alistair followed. She stepped into the room where Carl was and closed the door in Alistair's face. A muffled thump and whine was heard soon after, but was ignored. Rick was seated in a chair next to the bed and was watching his son with an intensity that bordered on tears.

Lori sat on the bed beside her son and Samara leaned against the wall closest to the exit.

Rick's eyes finally settled on her and he reclined in his chair. He looked like he was about to pass out at any second. Samara could see the faint syringe marks on his inner elbow.

"Shane still hasn't returned. I want to go after him but circumstances won't allow me." His donating arm gave a twitch and his blue eyes settled on Lori.

Samara's eyes narrowed. _Oh, hell no._ He wasn't thinking that—"You want me to go?"

"If Shane and Hershel's man are in trouble then they need help." Rick tried to make her understand. "And I can't do it. If I could leave I would already be there."

"No."

"Samara, please listen." Rick shifted to the edge of his seat. His palms were joined together in a praying motion. With each word, his hands moved to emphasize the gravity of his words. "If Carl—if my _son_ doesn't get those medical supplies soon he will die."

Samara unglued from the wall and crouched next to the sheriff's seat.

"I know, Grimes. But do you understand what you're asking me to do?" This was not an easy request. Not by a long shot. "You are asking me to go out there, in the pitch black, to find a high-school that is most likely crawling with dozens of walkers. And when I get there, I have no idea where Shane and Otis are or even if they are alive."

Rick tried to say something but Samara put up a hand to finish.

"If they are alive, then they are trapped somewhere I probably won't be able to reach. And if they're not…then there's really nothing I can do." Maybe if she had at least a dozen armed men with her, she could. But on her own was unlikely.

Rick leaned forward and leveled the marshal with a serious look. He wasn't a fool, he knew the implications.

"When you say it like that, then I understand where your worries lie. But this is _my_ son's life on the line and rationality isn't somethin' I'm about to listen to."

Samara scoffed. "Right, you won't listen when it comes to someone else's ass on the line."

"That's not fair." Lori jumped in to defend her husband.

"Isn't it?" Samara turned to her and spoke lowly so the boy wouldn't wake up. "This is my life you are talking about. Shane has a good reason for going on this suicidal mission. He loves Carl and he loves the both of you. But me? Why in your Jesus Christ would I risk my life for—"

Lori's brows rose in disbelief. "For what? Saving a twelve year old boy's life? Are you really that heartless?"

"Trust me woman, if I was as heartless as you perceive me to be, I wouldn't be here." _I would be on the road with your gun bag and the majority of your supplies. And you people would be a few members short._

"I didn't ask for any of this. I just wanted to go on my way this morning and now I'm stuck here looking for a lost girl and then _this_ happens." She motioned towards the unconscious boy.

"You think I did?!" Lori hissed heatedly. "We're the ones standin' here with a child dyin'!"

Her anger suddenly cracked and tears gathered in her russet eyes. Her hand covered her mouth to stop the sobs from coming out. Rick moved from the chair and sat next to his wife. Lori practically jumped into his arms, hugging him for dear life.

Samara sat in the vacant chair and averted her eyes. She waited for the woman to calm down and speak coherently.

"Do you have any idea how this feels?" Lori disentangled from her husband and sniffled. She wiped the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath. "Just sittin' and hopin' that his heart doesn't stop beatin' at every passin' second. That help will come, but you have no idea when or if ever. The helplessness that…"

She stopped talking, unable to say another word as her eyes settled on her dying son. Rick gripped her hand tightly and his thumb caressed her skin soothingly.

Samara's flat eyes watched the sniffling woman. If this was a ploy for guilt-tripping her into going, then…it was working.

"I know more of what you're going through than you might realize, Mrs. Grimes." Samara's tone was soft and low.

With a sigh, the marshal leaned into her chair and massaged her brow. She couldn't believe that she was actually thinking of going. All because Lori shed a few tears. Damn, she was getting soft.

"I'll go by the school, check out the area, but in return I want that debt settled." She gave Rick a challenging look. He better take her offer, otherwise he could just forget it.

Rick nodded. He just wanted her to go and find Shane.

"And I'm going to need a rifle. I'm not going out there with only three handguns."

"Fine."

Samara rose to her feet. "And that rifle will permanently remain with me." She knew she was pushing it, but Rick didn't have much of a choice if he wanted her help.

Rick sighed tiredly. Samara really didn't relent on that _wining_ personality of hers.

"You ain't exactly leavin' me with any choice." Rick nodded and Samara searched the bag Shane left in the corner of the room. Picking out the Winchester, she checked the feed system. The rifle was a five round capacity. The marshal picked out the box of bullets that matched the rifle and took half of another box for the handguns.

"Samara, thank you." Lori called after her softly.

Samara nodded curtly and stepped out of the room. She had to find Hershel.

"You better hope the old farmer has another car." Samara scowled. "I'm not riding a fucking horse again."

* * *

"We have a small family van. It has gas in it and everythin'."

Maggie and Jimmy were guiding Samara and Alistair outside towards the back of the house. Hershel had agreed on borrowing his car to her and he personally drew a map to the high-school. As the girl said it was a small family car that was as old as time itself. Even the paint was scrapped off it.

"Are you sure it works?" Samara watched the car with doubt.

Maggie nodded. "It's old, but it still has life in it."

"I'm just worried that it doesn't break down on me in the middle of the road."

"It won't. It's got a steady engine."

Samara sighed. It will have to do. "Do you have any alcohol?"

"No."

"Really?" Her brows shot up. Don't farmers usually have a shitload of alcohol around? "Not even a bottle of whiskey?"

"No." Her refusal was harsher this time. "My dad's house is alcohol free."

_Picked a hell of a time to stop drinking_. "Then do you have any empty bottles I can use?" She could fill them up with fuel from the van.

"Yeah, I think there are some in the cellar. What do you want them for?"

"Molotov's."

Before Jimmy or Maggie could say a word, the faint sound of tires reached their ears.

"Maybe that's Otis." Jimmy said hopefully to the women as he jogged towards the dirt road.

Samara, Maggie and the dog sprinted after him, but they were dismayed when they saw that it was a Volkswagen coming down the road and not the truck. Samara saw Glen behind the wheel and T-Dog in the passenger seat.

"They from the highway?" Jimmy asked.

Samara nodded and marched to the blue vehicle.

"Get out of that car." Samara sternly said as the engine of the car stopped.

"Hey." Glen opened the car door and got out, T-Dog following his lead. "Sorry we took so long."

"Don't care." She shooed him away from the car. "Move."

He did hurriedly. The older woman wasn't in a bargaining mood. Actually, she looked positively feral. And that made the young man's flight instincts flare up.

"Is everything alright?" He peeked at the two strangers that accompanied the marshal. "Where are you going?"

"Rick will explain." Samara motioned for the dog to enter the open car as she placed the rifle in between the two front seats. Without breaking pace, she occupied the driver seat.

"Don't you need those bottles?" Jimmy approached the car door.

Samara shook her head. "Not anymore." She had found some alcohol bottles at the highway and they were currently stored in the trunk, prepared with gasoline and all. She was good.

"Do you need me to repeat those directions?" Maggie asked her.

"No. I got it."

Without another word, she started the engine and swiveled the car around, spraying dirt on the four of them. Coughing, they watched as the car's headlights became fainter and fainter before fully disappearing into the night.

* * *

Samara's grip on the steering wheel tightened with each passing minute. She followed the directions on the map to the detail and should come upon the high-school in a few minutes.

What the hell was she doing? Driving up to a FEMA shelter to find Shane and Otis—knowing that there were fifty/fifty chances that they were alive—was insane. She was asking for a wendigo bite. Thoughts of leaving crawled into her mind from that egotistical black pit located at her core. She had everything she needed in the trunk of her car and with the extra firearm and ammunition she was set. She could just drive onwards and forget about everything. Find an empty farm somewhere and settle in.

Every time these thoughts came to mind, Lori and Rick's devastated faces passed her eyes. The boy laying there on the bed with one foot in the grave, his father's angered howling when he had been carrying his wounded son to the farm, him just standing on the porch with that lost expression. Once these images came to Samara her will to change course shriveled up and burnt to ashes.

And that just made her cranky. Not two days and Rick managed to crawl back under her skin. And this time, his family joined the merry band. Gods, at this point she really wished she had been as heartless as Lori thought she was.

Her fist thumped on the steering wheel. Why? Why him? What was it about Grimes that always managed to change her usual pattern of looking for oneself? It was becoming annoyingly predictable how that man could change her mind with just a few words. Yes, sometimes there were other factors that entered the persuasion, but all those factors were connected to him.

—It sickened her.

Alistair was quiet beside her. He could smell the gravity of their situation and the anger wafting off his owner, and so kept his noise to a minimum.

Samara slowed the car once she spotted a blue truck parked by the side of the road. Stopping parallel with it, she observed the interior. Nobody was inside and there was no blood. Samara backed the car and stopped it just a few paces from the truck. If she needed to leave quickly it would be best for Otis's truck not to interfere.

Exiting the car, Samara and Alistair rounded up on the car and opened the trunk. She carefully retrieved two prepared bottles, leaving the others alone. With the rifle over her shoulder, the two bottles in hand, she climbed the hill on the left side of the road with her silenced gun in her other hand. Once at the top, she crouched low and observed the parking lot. Several cars were strewn across the pavement: ambulances, police, army, civilian cars. There was a large medical trailer near the high-school and about a dozen walkers littered the parking lot.

Samara gave the dog a look. He was watching the walkers with alert eyes and arched spine. He was anxious, the stench of death was everywhere. He could not focus on one scent alone.

Samara cautiously marched forward towards the back of an open police car. She would give anything to have her night-vision goggles here with her, but alas they were in a house hundreds of miles away. Her only reprieve was that it was a cloudless night and the moon shone bright. Samara peeked around the corner of the car to see if any of the undead caught her movements. They did not.

The marshal was about to move when a gunshot froze her and the dog in place. It was from a shotgun by the sound of it.

The walkers started marching towards it, their interest piqued. Samara watched as the corpses rounded the high-school and disappeared behind the corners.

Someone was still living. If it was a shotgun then Shane was alive somewhere at the back of the school.

Samara walked hastily behind the cars and stopped when she heard two other gunshots. This time a rifle. And another shotgun round.

They're both alive, it seems.

Samara placed the gun back in its holster, settled the bottles on the ground and took out the map Maggie drew for her in regards to the high-school. She lit the small pocket flashlight she had with her and gazed at the map. The parking lot was in front of the school and at the back of the building was a courtyard and behind it, a football field with a small indoors gymnasium. There were two pathways leading around the high-school. Samara looked around and saw the lanes were somewhat clear. A car could go past without much difficulty.

She knew what she had to do. She had to draw the walkers away from those two, give them some leeway.

Samara pocketed the flashlight and map, picked the bottles and ran back to the police car. Now that the walkers were gone she could inspect it freely. The keys were still in the ignition. Alistair hopped in the car and Samara turned the key on, the engine sputtering to life. Pushing the pedal almost through the floor, the tires screeched and the car sprinted forward.

* * *

Shane and Otis were trapped. They were at the back of the school surrounded by walkers. If it wasn't for the chain fence, they would be dead by now. They couldn't go back, the high-school was filled with walkers. They could hear them scratching at the door, ready to burst it open.

"We have to get out of here." Otis watched the walkers gripping at the fence with dread.

"How do you suggest we do that? There's no way to go through."

"We could—"

A screeching, high pitched sound burst through the night air and swallowed the ravenous growls of the dead. Shane and Otis watched baffled as a police car with its sirens blaring appeared from around the corner of the building and sped on the football field. The walkers turned slowly towards it as surprised as their rotten faces could show. The car stopped and a person and a dog got out.

Not even a minute later, Shane and Otis ducked and covered when something alight flew and hit several of the walkers, setting them on fire. The dog started running and barking, catching the corpse's attentions and like the mindless, short-attention freaks that they are, they shuffled towards the meal they could reach instead of the ones they couldn't. Shane watched as the dog paced in front of the walkers before running, letting them tail him. Now that he recognized who the two new players were, Shane and Otis watched as Alistair jumped back in the car and Samara follow right behind him. She drove off the field with the walkers chasing the noisy car, giving the two men the opportunity to flee.

Otis watched in amazement as the fence around them was clear save for a few walkers they could take down on their own.

"I'll be damned."

* * *

Samara kept the walkers in the rear-view mirror as the car sped at a small speed. She needed to keep them interested in the car and not backtrack to Shane and Otis.

The police vehicle drove off the field and rounded up on the school building, crashing into and pushing off two cars out of her way. Samara slowed the car and veered it so it stood horizontally on the road, blocking the oncoming wave of dead. She set the car in gear and got out hastily with the dog. She needed the sirens to keep singing, so the car stayed on.

"Alistair, go back. Cast and bring the wendigos!" She hissed at the dog. Alistair ran back after the herd of walkers howling and barking his vocal cords off.

Slinging the rifle off her shoulder, she took off her button up shirt and stuffed half of it into the fuel tank of the car. With her last Molotov, she ripped the rag out of the bottle and poured the liquid content on the trunk, fuel tank and back tire. This way the flames would spread quicker.

This was probably one of the stupidest things she's ever done, but she was short on bombs. Besides, she didn't even know if the car will explode. Bringing out a lighter and throwing the now empty bottle away, she looked over the trunk of the car as she waited for Alistair.

Minutes passed. Samara noticed three walkers coming from the side and approaching fast. Must have been stragglers that she didn't see when she arrived. With a growl, she shot them off with her silenced gun. The parking lot was clear now. Thank the gods for small mercies.

Sweat poured down her brow. She was in a really bad location. Her sides were exposed to every walker that hears the siren and she had droves coming from the front and several from her right. Not to mention the fact that she was about to set the car on fire. If Alistair didn't come soon, she'll have to detonate.

Barks resounded again and the marshal saw the dog round the corner of the building. The walkers soon appeared, dozens upon dozens chasing the dog.

"Alistair, run!"

Alistair sidestepped the car and kept on running, no longer caring about the undead on his tail. Once a quarter of the walkers reached the car, Samara hastily set the rag on fire.

Without a glance back, she ran for dear life. She could hear the undead bastards at her back—much closer than she would have liked—growling after her. Not even five seconds passed, when a scorching heat hit her back.

—The car must have set on fire.

It didn't stop her from running cast a look behind her and observed the aftereffects. The walkers that had been close to the car caught on fire, but it didn't stop them from marching.

_Dammit, where's an explosion when you need one! _Now she had flaming walkers after her! _Perfect!_

The marshal's face fell when she caught sight of what was ahead of her. There were two walkers in short distance of Alistair, and he didn't notice them.

_Fuck!_

"Run, you stupid dog!" Without a pause she aimed her handgun at the undead and shot them. But in her run she only managed to hit one in the head while the others were hit in the chest and shoulder respectively. It was enough to send Alistair running, but the abruptness of when he turned made the dog let out a sharp cry.

"Shit…" Samara stopped and centered her aim. Two shots and the remaining walkers went down. She picked up the pace again and approached the limping dog. She did not waste time in checking him over and squarely picked him up and ran. The walkers from her back had picked up the pace and were closing in, on fire or not.

The marshal hoped that this gave Shane and Otis enough time to reach the road.

Samara heard a gunshot and pain-filled screams followed, but it didn't stop her from running. It actually made her go faster. Another shot was fired and more screams, this time it wasn't a rifle or shotgun. Samara looked on the side, but couldn't see anything of what was happening because of a school bus blocking her vision and the blackness of the night. Once she reached the edge of the parking lot, she stopped and waited for any signs of a survivor. The screams still continued, but now accompanied by the growls and groans of the undead.

The walkers that had been chasing her were still moving, but some had fallen, the fire burning them too extensively. They still had a way until they reached her so Samara wasn't worried. But that didn't stop her from placing the dog on the pavement, shrugging off the rifle from her shoulder and shooting them off one by one.

Soon enough, Shane rounded the bus, limping quickly towards her. He had two large backpacks with him, but no Otis. It seemed that larger man was the one screaming.

"Help me!" Shane shouted as he breathed heavily.

Samara slung the riffle back over her shoulder, commanded Alistair to stay still and ran back. With a heave, she swung Otis's backpack over her free shoulder and with her unoccupied hand gripped Shane by the arm and propelled him forward. With one peek behind, she saw more than a dozen walkers dog-piled atop what was left of Otis, enjoying his flesh and innards blissfully.

_Goddamn…_

"What the hell happened?"

Shane just shook his head. He couldn't speak right now, not after what occurred. What _he_ did.

Not a second later and a large explosion shook their world. In their alarm, they both stopped and looked towards the source of the noise. Samara's brow twitched when she saw the police car reduced to scrap.

_Now it decided to explode!_

"What the—?" Shane started, but Samara simply nudged him forward. They still were in a dangerous place after all.

"Tell you later!" Samara moved as fast as she could with her arms full of bag, guns and Shane. The marshal and deputy didn't even slow down as they ran down the hill towards the cars, Alistair right on their tail. Once at the truck, Samara placed the backpack she carried in the back of the truck and took off the one that Shane had on his back, throwing it alongside the other.

"Can you drive?"

Shane nodded and entered the driver's side of the truck.

Samara picked up the dog and ran for her car. Upon entering it, she threw the rifle on the backseat and placed Alistair on the passenger seat. Not even missing a beat, she started the engine of the car as the truck in front sped down the lane. Her car followed soon after.

The marshal gave one last look in the rear-view mirror and saw nothing following them. The walkers were probably occupied with eating Otis and burning than give chase to the two cars.

Samara's eyes returned to the road in front and let out the breath she had been holding since Shane showed up. Now that the stressful situation had been left behind, she could feel the adrenaline leave her body in droves, making her body quiver uncontrollably and that butterfly feeling grow in her stomach. Cold sweat poured down her forehead in abundance.

_What a bloody mess…_

Her eyes watched the truck with dead eyes and pursed lips. Gunshots and screams and Otis dead. And only Shane came out alive.

Her grip on the steering wheel made her knuckles go white.

_This does not bode well._

* * *

The two cars came to a stop once they reached the front of the farmhouse. Once the others heard the twin engines, they came out of the house.

Samara unclenched her fingers from the steering wheel, opened the interior light and checked up on Alistair who had been strangely quiet. There was no blood on him, or cuts or gashes, but he kept licking his back paw. Prodding his hind quarter, she got a jump out of him and a small whine.

—He either sprained his leg or broke it.

With a sigh, she stroked his fur. Stupid dog. He should have been more attuned to his surroundings. But considering the circus that she had made out of the whole ordeal, she doubted he could have heard them over the sirens.

"I'm sorry about that." She told him gently as she petted him on the head. The dog licked her bare fingers in gratitude that she was being gentle and not her usual crotchety self. She took the rifle from the backseat, wiped her fingers of the saliva and picked the dog up carefully. With a heave, she got out of the car.

Shane was already out and giving the backpacks to Hershel. The farmer looked around for his son-in-law. He felt dread form in the pit of his stomach. "Where's Otis?"

"He didn't make it." Samara answered as Shane fumbled with his words.

Hershel's breath picked up feeling the heaviness of the implication of the woman's words. "We say nothin' to Patricia. I need her focused."

Without another word he retreated back into the house. His daughter Maggie wasn't in any better shape. Tears sprung to her eyes as she stood there numbly.

Samara watched as Rick embraced his blood brother. Shane responded to the hug weakly; he was still in shock and so, his movements came out lethargic.

"What happened?" Maggie asked unsteadily as she watched the two men. Lori stepped towards her and put an arm around her shoulder. She tried to provide whatever comfort she could.

"They kept blocking us at every turn." Shane shook his head, unable to look either of them in the eyes. He didn't want them to see through his lies. "Samara diverted the walkers and made them follow her. It worked; we had the chance to run. But…some stayed behind and came after us. And then others joined. We had nothing left. We were down to 10 rounds." Shane chocked as tears gathered in his eyes. His mind was finally caching up to his actions. "Then he said he'd cover me and that I should keep going. So that's what I did. I just…I kept going. But I—" He paused, the salty liquid rolling down his cheeks. "I looked back and he..."

Rick took a hold of the man's shoulder and gave him a teary-eyed stare. There was no guilt or doubt in his eyes. "He wanted to make it right."

Shane nodded shakily, but his eyes flitted everywhere. His facial muscles twitched at every five seconds.

Rick, Lori and Maggie took Shane's erratic behavior as shock and wretchedness for Otis's sudden and horrifying departure, but Samara watched every twitch and every move the deputy made with grim shrewdness. Shane felt grief, but he also felt guilt not of a survivor, but of someone that purposely left a man behind to get eaten.

Samara had done nothing but think on her way to the farm. First came a gunshot, then Otis screamed in pain. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together—two men with dozens of walkers at their backs and not enough ammo to destroy them all. One man running with a bum leg would have been overwhelmed before he could even reach the edge of the parking lot. But if he gave the walkers a distraction—something to give him enough time to reach the car with the heavy bags—he could survive and bring the medicine to the boy. A boy that he cared for more than some stranger's life. A stranger that put said boy in such a life-threatening state.

Samara wasn't an idiot. She knew what she heard and her gut feeling told her that Shane sacrificed Otis so he could live. He did murder to save a boy's life.

But Samara wasn't about to voice any of these thoughts. As she said, she wasn't an idiot and she valued her life above all else.

* * *

"Is his leg broken?"

Samara was with Maggie and Glenn in the kitchen looking over the comatose dog on the table. Maggie had agreed to inspect the dog, despite her sorrow. She probably needed something to do to keep her mind occupied. Samara hadn't wanted to take advantage, but the girl had insisted.

"No. My guess is that it's sprained." Maggie sniffled and leaned in her seat. "I'll bandage his leg. That's all that I can do. My father could do more later."

"Thank you." Samara watched as Maggie took some bandages out of the first aid kit at her side and proceeded to wrap it around the dog's hind leg.

"Why aren't the others here?" The marshal addressed Glenn who was seated opposite Maggie, stroking Alistair's fur.

"Carol wouldn't leave so everyone decided to stay there at least until morning. Maybe Sophia will show up…" He left his statement open. He wasn't sure about the girl anymore. Almost two days have passed and there have been no sign of her. The chances of finding her were fast waning for him.

"Do you think Carl will make it through?"

Maggie shrugged faintly. "My father will try his best, but I can't guarantee anythin'. People ain't his usual patients."

Samara sighed. "At this point Glenn, we can only hope."

"Hope…" Glenn laughed hollowly and his eyes lowered. "It seems like forever since I felt that. We just can't get a break, can we?"

First Wiltshire, then Sophia and then Carl. And now this family's lost someone. It was a never ending wave of pain and sorrow.

"If you keep waiting for a miracle to happen, you'll just be left disappointed."

Glenn smiled dimly, his fingers ghosting over the black and white fur. "Then are we just supposed to give up?"

"I'm not telling you to do that." Samara leaned into her seat. "Keep hoping and looking for that silver lining, that's your prerogative. I, on the other hand, have no expectations." The corner of her lips upturned for a second. "I'm rarely let down this way."

"I think…" Glenn's eyes fleeted towards Maggie who was too focused on her work to notice his short ogle. "I'll keep searching for that silver lining."

Samara's lips stretched into a strange grin. Not an hour onto the farm and he was already eyeing the farmer's daughter. Now there's a plot for a bad comedy romance movie. The apocalypse with flesh-eating undead is neigh, boy meets girl, daddy has a shotgun ready to blast a hole into any interloper on his daughter's virtue and then…well, like all bad romances it probably ends sappy. Or horribly considering the world they lived in now.

"There." Maggie tied the bandage ends and gave the leg a short pat.

"Thank you." Samara picked the dog up and walked towards the living room. Before exiting the threshold, the marshal paused. There was something she needed to say. "Maggie, about the laughing earlier…I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

The young woman gave her a faint cheerless smile. "I really don't care about that right now."

The marshal gave her a small nod and left the kitchen. She stepped through the halls and exited the house. Samara observed the group: Lori and Rick were on the front stairs, Shane was leaning against the truck and T-Dog was on a rocking chair.

"How's your arm?"

T-Dog opened his eyes and showed her his bandaged arm. "Better. I feel like I'm on cloud nine."

Rick watched with tired eyes as Samara place the dog on the porch. "Alistair, he alright?"

"Just a sprain."

Samara's eyes slid to Shane as she descended the stairs. He was watching her from the corner of his eyes with a blank gaze. The marshal ignored him as she walked the length of her car to the trunk. With the keys, she opened it and searched for some food and water for herself and the dog.

Heavy footsteps stopped near the end of the car.

"Samara."

The marshal sighed. She knew that this would happen sooner or later. She was the only witness to the incident. "What is it, Shane?"

"Back at the school…" He tried to find his words as he shifted uneasily. "What did you see?"

Samara took out of a duffle a can of peaches, ham and a bottle of water. "You running, Otis being eaten."

Shane's eyes narrowed. The woman said one thing, but he could tell that she was thinking another. "Then what do you _think_ happened?"

"Does it matter what I think?"

_I know…_that's what her eyes told him. There was no judgment or satisfaction in her gaze, but she was no longer regarding him like before. Now there was just a guarded vigilance as one would gaze upon a violent dog behind a fence.

"I had no choice." Shane's voice wavered as the sordid memory came to. "We wouldn't have made it if—"

"Don't say it." Samara cut him off abruptly. "Because then it makes me a part of it. I would rather speculate and keep silent."

"But you understand, right?" He tried to voice his desperation. "You're no stranger to these sorts of things."

Samara froze and her eyes narrowed to slits. "And just what do you mean by that?"

"Rick told me what happened at the motel."

_Of course he did_, Samara internally sighed. She stepped closer to him, her voice lowering even further with a hostile edge. "If that is a threat, I'll tell you now that I don't respond well to them."

"No, dammit!" He spat, irritation overshadowing his misery for a second. Why was it so hard to talk to this woman? "I just…I'm just tryin' to make you understand why I did what I did."

"I don't care." She said simply. "Just because I've killed people doesn't mean you have to spill your woes to me. I'm not a shoulder to cry on."

Shane watched her with hollow eyes. They stood like that for a few moments and, finally, Shane nodded and moved away from her. He was both relieved and frustrated. He needed to speak the truth about what happened to someone that wouldn't hate him for what he did. And the only person that could wanted nothing to do with it.

Before he departed, Samara called out to him misleadingly soft. "And one last thing, don't even think of dragging me into your mess."

"Just as long as you keep your thoughts to yourself." He told her without turning, his voice gruff.

Samara sighed as she watched him depart. He was such a sad sight; like watching a zoo animal.

_Oh well…_Samara just hoped that he would make up a good cover-up story. The last thing they needed was the Greene's throwing them off their property. But if it came to that, Samara wondered if the group would leave. She wouldn't.

With a shake of her head, she joined the others with her dinner.

* * *

Samara sat on the porch alongside T-Dog's rocking chair, staring off into the darkness when Hershel came out the door.

They had been waiting for over three hours, keeping their interactions to a minimum. It was a dreary night, and anxiety was running high. Alistair was now lying curled up by Samara's side after indulging himself with a bowl of canned ham.

Everyone rose to their feet when the farmer came outside, Maggie and Glenn right behind him. The old man was smiling which immediately told them that everything was alright. They just needed to hear it out loud now.

"He seems to have stabilized."

Rick let go of his wife's hand and embraced the farmer, his words dying out in his throat. He conveyed through his actions what he couldn't in words.

Samara breathed heavily and leaned against the wall of the house. That was one disaster averted.

"I don't have words." Lori beamed at Hershel like he was the Savior himself and sniffled. Her tears were no longer shed in grief, but in joy.

Rick let go of the elder man and joined his wife's side, embracing her also.

"I don't either. Wish I did." Hershel's smile faded now that Otis's death finally settled into his mind. "How do I tell Patricia about Otis?"

The smiles on everyone vanished. All but one had forgotten about the fallen man. Rick thought on it and then looked to his wife.

"You go to Carl. I'll go with Hershel."

Minutes after Lori, Shane, Maggie, Rick and Hershel entered the house, Samara heard Patricia's anguished cries. The marshal had no desire to enter the house at this moment. T-Dog and Glenn seemed to have the same idea as they remained on the porch, trying to block out the elder woman's sobs.

The convalescing mutt placed his head on Samara's lap timidly. Callous fingers began threading through his tangled mane making him relax. Samara's eyes were distant as she watched the fur tame under her hand.

"This was one hell of a day, huh…"

* * *

**Foot Note:** Already got ch. 6 and 7 done, I'm currently on 8. Will update in a few days.


	6. Life is Not Cherokee Roses

**Note: **So, they're at the farm finally. The show's timeline puts them at about two weeks of them staying at the farm, maybe. I'm gonna push that time a little further up to a month so some of the events are not going to happen in the same sequence as in the show. It's better this way, plot wise.

This chapter would cover up 'Cherokee Rose'. Not all the events in that episode will happen, like Lori asking Glenn for a pregnancy test. Glenn having sex with Maggie, that does happen.

And Samara and Daryl are finally gonna have some alone that kind of lone time, you pervs. Get your mind out of the gutter.

**PS:** Thank you guys for all your reviews. It really brightens my day when I see people that actually enjoy the crap I write. I know that some of you might be here just for the romance between Daryl and Samara, but to tell you the truth I don't see it happening in the 2nd season because of how I see it progressing story-wise. I don't want to rush it. Let's face it, Daryl is not the romantic type and neither is Samara. They have issues, go figure. But there is going to be bonding and some sparks along the way.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

_Samara was walking through a white hallway._

_One each side was a wendigo, standing as still as statues. They were all watching her with milky, vacant eyes._

_Strangely, Samara wasn't afraid. She passed the lines of undead with barely any thought as though they were docile sheep instead of man-eating monsters._

_At the end of the sterile hallway was a door. A red door._

_Samara walked towards it with dread in her stomach. She didn't know what was behind it, but she knew it wasn't good. Her nightmares were never pretty._

_She wondered who it was now. Her husband, the recurrent star in her dreams, or maybe her father. She even had a nightmare about her mother once, but the sight of her getting torn apart by walkers was more of a good dream than a bad one._

_Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the door and turned, exposing a nursery with a crib in the middle._

Oh Gods no…

Not this. Don't defile my memories with this.

_Her feet moved forward and she had no power to stop them. To stop this dream from continuing._

_Bare fingers curled around the bars of the crib. Inside was a small shape covered with a light blue blanket. Samara watched as the blanket created waves from the movements underneath._

_The sounds coming from the tiny form weren't human. They were the groans of the undead._

_With shaky fingers, Samara reached for the blanket. _

_She couldn't stop them from clenching on the material and pulling—_

* * *

Her body jerked awake. Pain exploded in her forehead.

"Fuck!"

"Shit!"

Opening her eyes, Samara came face to face with Glenn. He was cupping his nose, tears leaking from his eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Samara hissed at him angrily. Shit, her head was hurting. What was his face made out of, granite?

"What am I doing?! You head-butted me!"

"How the hell was I supposed to know you were standing over me?" Samara rose to a sitting position on the couch. Hershel had let her and the others sleep in the house, and Samara chose the living room area along with Alistair, Glenn and T-Dog.

The marshal gave the young man an accusing look. "Why _were_ you leaning over me? You get your kicks out of watching women sleep, you little pervert?"

"W-What?!" Glenn's voice pitched to high note. The last thing he needed was to be thought of as a pervert. "No! I was—I was just trying to wake you up! You were thrashing around and crying."

Samara straightened her back arrogantly. "I do _not_ cry."

"Well, it sure sounded like it." Glenn removed his hand from his nose and noticed the drops of blood. "Oh man, I'm bleeding."

The marshal scoffed. "Cry me a river."

She rose to her feet, still massaging her tender brow. Looking around, she saw no sign of Alistair or anyone else for that matter.

"Where's everyone?"

"Eating. It's seven in the morning." Glenn said grouchily. He was going to need a towel.

Samara's eyebrows rose. _I slept for that long? _

"Rick told me to wake you up before all the food was gone. Our group's in the kitchen."

Samara stretched her back and felt a throb shoot up her spine more intensely than yesterday. It seems that all that action from last night had finally caught up to her and it was now punishing her for her continual straining of her back. Pulling the pill bottle out of her pant pocket, she dry swallowed a painkiller and then marched towards the kitchen.

Samara did not expect the sight that greeted her, one she hadn't seen since the end of civilization.

—People eating a hearty breakfast at the kitchen table.

She had to stop and just watch the scene with wonder. Whatever sadness plagued the group last night was gone. There were only smiles and lighthearted chatter.

Rick, Lori and T-Dog were seated at the table, leaving the Greene's and Shane unaccountable. The family was understandable, but Shane…he probably couldn't face anyone in the light of day.

"What was all that shouting?" T-Dog gave Samara and Glenn a raised brow. One had a reddish mark on their brow, the other a bleeding nose.

"We were discussing the importance of personal space." Samara grumbled as she plopped into an empty chair and took off her raggedy gloves, not even caring that her wedding band was on full display.

Glenn was about to point out that, that was his chair she was sitting on and his food she was currently shoveling down, but he thought it better. That glare she gave him after her abrupt awakening had choked some of his courage. After applying a few napkins to his nose, he sat on the only available chair and took a plate of food for himself.

Samara closed her eyes as she savored the scrambled eggs. It tasted like honey in her mouth. "This is _really_ good."

"Mhmm." Rick smiled as he took another slice of bread. "Almost forgot what homemade cookin' tasted like."

"How's your boy?" Samara asked between mouthfuls.

"Better." Lori smiled as she looked back towards the door of Carl's room. While she was anxious to go back, she needed to fill her stomach.

"Hershel said he was out of any danger." Rick threaded his fingers through his wife's. "It's gonna take a week or two before he can get out of bed, but he's gonna make a full recovery."

Samara nodded. That was good.

Feeling a nudge at her leg, she looked underneath the table. Alistair was pawing at her feet and giving her wide hungry looks. Samara could see that the bandage was still on him. With a sigh, the marshal took a few more bites and placed the plate on the ground to which the dog ate ravenously from.

"Did Hershel by any chance look over the dog?" She asked as she nibbled on a piece of fresh bread with butter.

Glenn answered after swallowing. "Hershel gave him the okay. Said that his hind leg was going to take a few weeks before it can heal and you should keep him from moving too much for at least a week."

"Anything else?"

"Uh…you need to put cold water on his leg twice a day to keep it from swelling. Hershel already did that this morning."

_Note to self: Thank the old man._

Rick's smile fell and his eyes turned serious. "They're holdin' a funeral for Otis this mornin'. They've asked us to attend."

"We will." Lori's grip on his fingers tightened. She was looking at each one of them without any room for argument. "All of us."

While Samara thought that attending the man's funeral was an insult considering how he died, she agreed. It would seem suspicious otherwise.

"I'm gonna go check up on Carl." Rick swallowed the last of his bite and stood from his seat. "Then I'm gonna join y'all outside."

* * *

Samara stood next to Andrea as the group and family was gathered around the symbolic grave.

The rest of Rick's people had arrived an hour after breakfast. Samara and the others were picking up rocks for the funeral when the loud motorcycle was heard driving up the dirt road.

"Blessed be God, father of our lord Jesus Christ. Praise be to him for the gift of our brother Otis, for his span of years, for his abundance of character."

Samara listened to the eulogy with only an ear. Her eyes were kept on Shane, searching for any cracks or signs of a break down. The man was like a statue though, there was no emotion pouring out of him.

The sight of Shane's shaved head was peculiar to Samara. It reminded her of her honeymoon in India, where she had watched as the son of a departed father shaved his head. She did not remember exactly why such a custom was practiced, but she could tell that it was in sign of respect. Samara didn't believe that Shane followed the same practices; his new buzz-cut was either done in guilt or on an unexplained impulse.

"Otis, who gave his life to save a child's, now more than ever, our most precious asset. We thank you, God, for the peace he enjoys in your embrace. He died as he lived, in grace." Hershel closed his Bible and his sad eyes turned on the deputy. "Shane, will you speak for Otis?"

Brought out of his stupor, Shane shook his head. "I'm not really good at it."

"You were the last one with him." Patricia sniffled and pleaded with teary eyes. "You shared his final moments. Please, I need to hear_._ I need to know his death had meanin'."

Shane was indecisive. He had already worked on a story, but thinking it was different than voicing it. His eyes skirted to Samara. She was watching him closely, but gave no sign to shut up or continue. She was simply waiting for his response.

Shane began speaking slowly.

Samara watched him carefully as he told the false story of Otis's final moments. There was bravery and self-sacrifice involved that made Samara's stomach twist in distaste. Since when did people talk so much before throwing themselves on the grenade? At least a bomb would offer a quick and painless death, but a hoard of walkers…It would be downright agonizing. Not many men would want to endure something like that.

Was Shane trying to paint Otis as a martyr? It would make the story believable in the grieving family's mind. No person would want to think different of their dearly departed, at least not at this hour. But the group…

The marshal really hoped that she was the only one that could see the faults in his story.

Shane's voice lowered. "Otis…He saved us both."

Samara felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand up. She knew that feeling; someone was watching her. Her eyes unglued from Shane and fleeted around. Who her gaze landed on surprised her. The redneck was scrutinizing her intensely.

When her fingers twitched towards her thigh gun, Daryl's eyes moved to Shane. Samara couldn't tell what the man was thinking; there was a stone wall erected in front of his eyes. But she did not like the way his focus slid back to her. Samara could almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

He was starting to _see_. And it didn't help that Shane kept looking at her like she was his anchor in a storm. She had really given the hunter too little credit.

Shane placed the rock on the grave and turned to Patricia. "If any death ever had meanin', it was his."

After Shane's last words, Hershel brought the funeral to an end.

* * *

Samara was sitting on the lush grass at the base of a giant tree with Alistair sprawled at her side. After the funeral, everyone had scattered. The group had left to unpack their belongings from the cars while Samara had needed some time for herself. She needed to think on what she'll do next.

Now that her debt was settled, she could leave…But she wasn't going to. There were good reasons as to why.

The marshal opened her eyes when she heard the sound of grass crunching underneath boot. Her focus settled on Rick Grimes walking towards her at a steady pace. His skin was still too pale for him to be wandering around.

"Takin' some time off?"

"Hardly." She took her sunglasses off. "I'm thinking."

The man nodded in understanding. "On your next move?"

Her lips quirked. "You know me too well."

With an exhale, Rick sat next to her and patted Alistair's furry torso. His worn-out look traveled across the field and settled on the group setting their tents and Dale parking the RV in a reasonable location within the camp. For the first time in what seemed ages, he felt relief. They finally found a place to live. It didn't matter how they came upon it, they could stop and sleep without worries of walkers trying to bite their heads off.

This wasn't Wiltshire. The Greene's had lived here since the virus and barely had any contact with the undead. They were relatively safe.

Rick took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his temple. "So, when are you leavin'?"

"I won't be." Samara bent her knees and placed her elbows on them, fingers tangling ahead. "I'm staying for now."

"Really?" This was surprising. "All this time you've been rantin' about leavin' and now you decide to stay? If I didn't know you, I'd say you took a shine to us."

"If only you didn't know me…" She huffed, before her lips settled into a straight line. "I've decided that it's in my best interest to remain. I'm still not at a hundred percent and Alistair's not going to be of much use to me if he can't run. Besides, your son is going to take about a week to get on his feet, more so to fully recover." That shrewdness of hers darkened the green in her eyes. "A few weeks of sitting around, dozing in the sun doesn't sound so bad."

Also, the way Samara saw it, the Greene's were one man short. Otis had been the provider, the hunter of the family. She doubted any of the others knew how to hunt and they would need meat for the oncoming winter. Samara knew the schematics of hunting; she could ascertain a permanent place on the farm by offering her skill-set. And the Greene's would also need protection from outsiders and wendigos and none of them seemed capable of handling a gun too well.

The only thing she needed now was time. Time for Otis's death to blow over so she could slowly introduce Hershel to the idea of her residing with his family.

And Shane…She needed to be cautious when dealing with Shane. If he broke down and confessed his deeds, her chances would become void. She was pretty sure that the old farmer placed her in the same category as the group and that would not do. She needed Hershel to understand that she was _not_ a part of Grimes' group as soon as possible.

"If you're stayin' then we need to lay down some ground rules."

Samara leaned on the hard bark of the tree eyeing the man with a frown. They were back at this again. Why can't they just see to their own business and stay out of each other's way?

"You're not part of the group and you're not a part of Hershel's people. That leaves you by yourself. The way I see it, you can either cooperate or manage on your own." And he meant it this time. He would not help her with anything if she continued with her feral ways.

"What does cooperation mean to you?"

"Helpin' the group and the Greene's." Rick returned her solemn stare with his own. "No more fights, no more bargainin' for doing a task, no more thinkin' of only yourself."

Samara will help the Greene's. There was no doubt in that, but Rick's group…that was a bit of a stretch.

"Why should I help your people?"

"Because you need us."

A short skeptical laugh escaped her. "Now _that_ I don't believe."

"You managed to injure yourself within the week we were separated. You were already injured when we met. That tells me that even someone like you needs others to watch their backs."

The marshal didn't take too kindly to his accusations, her hands tightening into fists as she bit her lip to stop herself from outright cursing the man to Hell and back. What did he know? She was better off on her own. Even with injuries such as hers she still managed to survive where this group couldn't handle an hour without some disaster befalling them.

"I'm not trying to belittle you, Samara." He tried to placate the growing anger inside her. "But you have to admit you need help. And I suggest you do it quickly because they're startin' to realize that you're not like them." He motioned towards his people setting camp. "It won't take long for the others to get fed up with your bullshit and turn their backs on you."

"I _don't_ need you or anyone else." She spat between clenched teeth. "I can take care of myself. And if you want to isolate me then do it. I can live with it. Hell, I've been doing it for almost three months."

"I'm sure you could, but everyone has their breakin' point." Rick's grip on his hat tightened. "Is it really that hard for you to work with others?"

Samara cursed and moved so that she sat in front of Grimes to emphasize her point.

"It's not about working together. It's about _trust_. I don't trust you people not to put my life in danger. How many times have you done that already? Thrice? In the span of two days, no less." The estates, the highway and then the high-school. There was only so much she could take.

"We all make mistakes." He admitted it, they had done _many_ mistakes. Including entering the CDC which had been his idea. "Are you tellin' me you've done nothing wrong this whole time?"

"I've made plenty. It's not like I entered this world with a book of instructions." She could count on both hands how many dumb moves she did in the past and, from time to time, still did. "But I learned from them. Your people seem to have a problem with doing that."

"Then show them!" He hissed at her so unexpectedly that Alistair woke up with a startle.

Samara's eyes narrowed. "I'm not the leader here Rick."

Rick's anger deflated and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't do this on my own." He shook his head and Samara could see the exhaustion return in full force. "I can't be in two, three, four places at once. I can't protect everyone."

He couldn't do it for Jacqui or Sophia or his son.

"This group is on a thin rope, I know that. I can see it. One more mistake and everythin' will topple over." Rick shook his head firmly, that scorching look of his surfacing. "I can't let that happen. I _won't_."

Samara gave him an irritated scowl, but she spoke calmly. "These people are not your responsibility. Your family is the only thing you should worry about."

Rick chuckled without humor. "That's where you're wrong. We need each other to survive." He then lifted his shoulders hopelessly. "Otherwise, what's the point? We go all our own separate ways, never helpin', then we'll go extinct in a short time. That's why you should join us. You're not indestructible, Samara."

Samara threw her sunglasses at a startled Rick and rose to her feet spiting curses in Navajo. That just pissed her off. She knew she was mortal, that at any moment she could die either by wendigo or some crazy bastard with a weapon. But that didn't mean she wanted to acknowledge it. That life was so much frailer now.

She also hated relying on others because every time she did, they only ended up disappointing her or worse, they gave her this smug look like they knew Samara couldn't handle herself and needed others.

Thoughts raced at a hundred miles per second in her mind, each one showing her a different scenario. If she complied, if she didn't, if she stayed, if she left. It was maddening.

Alistair whined lowly and lowered his head on his paws. He watched as his master ranted in a different language and aggravatingly paced in front of him and the sheriff like a caged animal.

A few minutes passed before Samara finally stopped.

"Alright…alright." She nodded along with the words, her gaze resigned and her throat dry. The disorienting thoughts in her mind all came to the same conclusion. She would have to cooperate. "I agree to your terms."

Rick exhaled lightly. Finally, they reached equal ground.

"But don't expect me to do a 180 in over a day." Samara doubted that her deeply rooted views would change anytime soon or if ever, but she could try.

—It was time to rejoin what was left of civilization.

"Never said I would." Rick rose to his feet and handed her the sunglasses. As the marshal's grabbed them, Rick's grip on them didn't falter. Samara raised a brow at the marshal's sudden change as he regarded her with a cold sternness.

"One last thing...If you put any of my people in danger, you have no place here no more."

Samara's eyes betrayed nothing as the sheriff let go of her glasses.

"Come on, you should start unpackin' and settin' up your tent."

"I don't have a tent. Didn't find one at the highway."

Rick placed his hat back on his head and looked over the camping sight. "I think Jacqui's old one is still with us. Dale probably has it."

* * *

With a grunt, Samara backed away and observed her work.

That woman Jacqui had an acceptable tent and Samara managed to put it upright with only some mild difficulty. She hadn't gone camping in a lot of years and was a bit out of practice. With a sigh, she looked around the camp. Everyone seemed to be working on settling camp. Her tent was located on the outskirts of the group and it seems that the hunter had the same idea as his tent was at an adequate distance from hers.

Samara grabbed her backpacks and entered the one person tent. Not a moment later, Alistair wobbled inside and set himself near the entrance, so the sun could warm him. The marshal unfurled Jacqui's sleeping bag and laid on it. The food and clothing duffels were at her feet. Samara felt no desire to riffle through them since her weapons were more important right now. She had to clean them and check their feed system.

With a sigh, she took out the two photos from her back pocket. In all the calamity of the last three days she hadn't had the chance to look upon them. She even forgot last night that they were still with her. With tenderness she stroked the faces of her family, whishing that even for a few minutes the world was right.

_Wishful thinking…_

The marshal put away the melancholy that threatened to darken her mood and placed the pictures in her backpack—they were safer there. She had work to do, no time for sentimentality. Samara collected every weapon she had, took a white top and rose to her feet. Rearranging the aviators over her eyes, she stepped over the dog and headed towards the wooden picnic table.

"Samara."

The woman in question turned and came across the sheriff. He motioned towards Otis's blue truck where Hershel, Shane, Andrea and Daryl were.

"We're gonna establish routes to search for Sophia. If you _want_ you can join us."

Samara could hear the underlying intent: join the meeting as the first step in being part of the group. With a deep breath, she changed course and followed the sheriff. The new rifle was slung over her shoulder while the white top was shoved in a jean pocket.

"How long has this girl been lost?" Samara heard Hershel ask.

"This'll be day three."

Maggie approached them and placed a large map on the hood of the truck. "County survey map. It shows terrain and elevations."

"This is perfect." Rick approached the map and surveyed it with complete attention. "We can finally get this thing organized. We'll grid the whole area, start searchin' in teams."

Hershel placed a firm hand on the man's shoulder. "Not you. Not today. You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hikin' five minutes in this heat before passin' out." He then turned to Shane. "And you push your ankle now, you'll be laid up for a month. You'll be no good to anybody."

Daryl grunted and readjusted his crossbow over his shoulder. "Guess it's just me."

Samara considered joining the search. Not because she wanted to search for the girl, but because she wanted to get familiar with the terrain. She needed to start reacquainting herself with hunting.

"And me."

Daryl's icy blues narrowed on her. "I don't need you slowin' me down."

"_Right_, because I slowed everyone down before."

The man scoffed and turned back to the map. "I'm gonna head back to the creek, work my way from there."

Samara heard him clearly. There was no 'we' in that sentence, only 'I'. She was alright with that, she was better off alone.

"Samara will go with you. I'm not lettin' either of you walk out there on your own." Rick said without question, also aware of the exclusion.

Neither Samara nor Daryl was looking forward to partnering up considering their past dealings. Samara was aware that most likely a fight—or several—would break out on their search.

Daryl was also thinking of something of the same nature and gave the woman a glare. First time he gets to be by himself after so many days and now he had to bring _her_ along. She was as bad as Shane. His distaste for her stemmed from the fact that even before speaking to him she had made up her mind about him being a 'redneck'. Not once she had tried to change her views. But it wasn't like he had given her an, and he neither wanted to.

He knew what he was and he didn't care of the opinions of a pig-headed mule like her.

"You two alright with that?"

Neither answered. Rick didn't need for them to verbalize it, he could see it in their eyes that they were not happy.

They would just have to suck it up. He couldn't have them at each other's throat anymore. If he wanted the group to remain stable, he needed those two to start cooperating. Forcing them together seemed like the only way. It might not be the best, but right now he was short on mediators.

Once the gathering was over, everyone left to do their respective tasks: Daryl and Samara into the forest and Shane on the highway with Andrea and Carol.

Samara readjusted her sunglasses as she picked up the pace to reach the hunter's side. Not too close and not too far away, mind you.

"How much time do you need to be ready?"

The man gave her a side glance. "I'm already set."

"Then give me a few minutes."

Without a word of acknowledgement, he continued on while Samara veered towards her tent. She needed to pawn Alistair off to someone as he was incapable of journeying with her. As she approached the tent lapel, Alistair raised his head in curiosity. Samara sidestepped him and entered her abode. Throwing away the white top, she checked the cartridges of her guns and filled them where there were missing gaps. Samara mentally noted to make an inventory of how much ammo she had when she returned. It wouldn't do if she was left without. Also, she needed to talk to Rick about what Shane said on target training. It was a bad idea in her opinion. Sound attracted dangers of all kinds.

_Really, don't these people ever listen?_

Without missing a step, she assessed what she was taking. Winchester rifle, three handguns, one silencer, one machete, a bottle of water and two power bars. Who knows how long she'll be staying out in the forest, better to have some nourishment with her.

Slinging a small shoulder bag with the rations over her shoulder and the riffle over it, she picked up Alistair and left her tent. The dog struggled at first, indignant, but then relaxed since it was futile trying to get out of her grasp.

Samara approached T-Dog who was working on his tent. "Hey, can you watch him?"

The man looked up at her and then at the dog and nodded.

The marshal placed the Collie on the ground which immediately limped off and settled in the shade a few paces away from T-Dog. Samara gave him a stern look as she spoke.

"Behave. Don't wander around. If you do, I'll sprain your other leg."

Samara then heard an abrupt chuckle from the heavy man and saw how he shook his head in slight disbelief. "I can't tell if you hate that dog so much that you love him or if you love him so much that you hate him." He gave her an amused glance. "You're very contradictory with him."

Samara blinked and walked away without a response. For a second, she thought she heard T-Dog let out another chuckle, but dismissed it. _Love my ass…_

As she approached Daryl at the edge of the camp, the man gave her a glower. "Hurry up. You're waistin' time."

_Deep breath. Calm. _

Without a response, she walked past him. Neither felt the urge to speak as their reached the forest and disappeared into the foliage.

* * *

Two hours into their search and nothing. No sound. No tracks. No walkers.

Daryl watched his surroundings carefully, never faltering in his steps. The woman was behind him a short distance away. Up until now he neither saw nor heard any mistakes in her actions. She wasn't as quiet as him when stepping, but that was understandable. He had been hunting his entire life, the forest practically being his second home while she was a city dweller. Or so he thought. He didn't know much about her background other than the fact that she was a marshal and that she knew how to track.

Her skill was satisfactory. She had the grace of someone who had been doing it for years. Probably used it to find fugitives or maybe she hunted in her spare time, he thought.

Subtlety looking behind him, he observed her as she watched the verdant forest with hawk-like precision. People that were not used to hunting or have never tried it in their lives would have their eyes fleeting in every direction, never stopping in one place for too long. But she was patient, observing every patch of dirt and plant with care.

At least she wasn't entirely useless.

"Who taught you how to track?" The question blurted out of him before he could stop and he mentally berated himself for breaking the silence.

Her green eyes stopped on him with a high degree of flatness before moving away and continuing her observation.

Daryl scoffed and turned back. She could keep her silence then.

Minutes passed before he heard her low voice. "My father. Tracking was a male tradition in my family."

Daryl gave her a strange look from over his shoulder.

"Yeah, I know. My father always wanted a boy, but he got me instead." There was no bitterness to her tone, she was just stating fact. Her father had decided early on that if biologically she couldn't be his son then spiritually she'll be.

This had been the reason for her joining the army and then joining the Marshal Service. Samara had never played with dolls and her usual entourage consisted of boys. She had spent her free time reading, playing baseball and going tracking with her father. Her grandmother had lectured her father on numerous occasions that this wasn't the way to raise a girl, but he never listened. He didn't see the benefits in the long run of playing house with miniature plastic figurines.

Her grandmother had been right somewhat. Half of her life she wished that she had been born male, the other half she tried to live up to her father's expectations as a 'son'. It wasn't healthy. This led to her having a tumultuous relationship with her father in her teen years which resulted in her signing up for the army as soon as she turned eighteen.

But she had forgiven him a long time ago since his atypical upbringing paid off in the end. She was still here after all.

"Who taught you?" She turned the question on him. She was internally surprised that neither had lapsed into anger as soon as the first words came out. Maybe it was the forest, Samara mused. It had a calm, peculiar feel to it. Or maybe it was the absence of the others around.

Daryl faced the path ahead. "My brother."

"Not your _pa_?" A dark brow rose, not being able to stop the mocking tone.

Daryl eyes narrowed as dark memories assaulted him. "No."

_I see…touchy subject_, Samara stored this information for later in case she ever needed it.

"Your brother, is he dead?"

"Don't know."

A dark brow rose. "You…don't know?"

"Didn't I just say that? Damn!" He spat at her. "He got left behind in Atlanta."

"Didn't you go look for him?"

"I did. He wasn't there. Son of a bitch freed himself and got away."

_What?_ Samara searched her memories on what Grimes told her about Atlanta. He had met a part of the group there and…there had been a hillbilly with them. One that had been restrained because he threatened to kill Grimes.

"The jackass that was cuffed to the roof?"

The hunter's shoulders tensed in irritation. "That 'jackass' is my brother. Watch what you say, woman."

Well, it really shouldn't surprise her that much. It seemed the asshole gene ran in the family. She wondered who the worse of the two was: Daryl or the other one whose name escaped her.

"Didn't Grimes tell you about this?"

"He just told me that someone was left behind." If there was a second story to that, she hadn't heard it.

Daryl grunted, but offered no further explanation. She could talk to Rick if she wanted to know more, he felt no need to elaborate.

Samara wondered how exactly Daryl's brother escaped out of a pair of steel handcuffs. She'd seen a lot of idiots in her marshal career attempt it, only to end up with torn skin, muscles or a broken thumb. Maybe he had had a key, but then he would have escaped sooner. The only other explanation would be someone either left him a key when the group left or…well, he did like all trapped coyotes do.

–That was a gruesome thought.

* * *

Another two hours had passed.

Samara and Daryl were currently taking a short respite. The heat was building up at an alarming rate. Didn't matter that Samara was born in a similar heat infested state, she never had gotten used to it.

The marshal watched as Daryl tied up on a string some squirrels he had shot. He had caught five of them as they were trekking through the forest. Samara would never admit it out loud, but she envied the casual manner in which he caught them. The man was a true hunter; no critters escaped his notice or his arrows.

Up until now she hadn't tried hunting anything. She hadn't felt the need to. Canned food had been her daily meal. She tried to put it off until there were no more canned goods to eat before trying to hunt. A part of her dreaded it since she was pretty sure she would botch it quite badly.

The marshal's thoughts turned dark as she wondered when the man would ask her about Otis. She knew he suspected something—Samara couldn't really understand how the others couldn't see it, but this man in front of her saw. Maybe he decided like her to keep his own council and not break the relative peace.

Samara took a swing of her bottled water. "How come you're still with this group?" That was something that had been nagging at her since she met him and even more now since she learned that Grimes left his brother stranded on a rooftop in Atlanta.

Daryl paused in his work and gave her a fleeting glance. "Why do you care?"

"Don't. Just making conversation."

Her answer was a shrug.

"Crowds just don't seem you type."

He tied another squirrel to the string, a bit more forcefully. "How do you know what my type is?"

"It doesn't take a genius to figure it out." Aside from the fact that his tent was outside the camp's grid or his general 'lone wolf' vibe, she couldn't _possibly_ conceive why she pegged him as a loner. "Doesn't it bother you that you're with the same people that left your brother to die?"

His hands stilled as his general irritation disappeared in favor of anger. "You just don't stop, do you? You get your kicks out of annoyin' me?"

"Well, now that you mention it…" She drawled before her expression morphed into frankness. "I am actually curious as to why."

"Well, I ain't obliged to indulge your curiosity."

"Wow. Fancy words." She made a mocking applauding gesture.

Daryl spat and threw the string of bounties over his shoulder. Definitely worse than Shane. "Christ, what the hell was Grimes thinkin' sendin' you off with me?"

"Trust me, I still ask myself that." The sheriff and his futile hopes. He probably believed that she and the redneck could come to an understanding if they spent enough time together. Futile hope indeed.

Samara watched as Daryl stalked off, eager to get back to his search and away from her forked tongue. With a heave, Samara rose from the log she had been sitting on and followed. She had been sincere in her question. She couldn't understand why he remained. Grimes dealt him a grave offense, but if Daryl thought that his sibling was still alive considering that there was no anger in his words, then maybe that was what kept him around the group. That and general survival. Having meat shields provided a better chance at not getting bit. It couldn't possibly be a sentimental reason.

_Sigh_.

Such a complicated redneck to figure out.

* * *

Daryl suddenly went rigid. Samara stopped in her tracks and sharpened her hearing and sight. There was nothing in the area to alarm her, just birds and the occasional squirrel.

"What is it?"

Daryl didn't answer her and stepped to his right towards a dense undergrowth. For a moment, he thought he saw something odd. Swatting the green leaves and small pines out of the way, he made enough room to see the oddity that had captured his interest.

—It was a house.

Samara stepped alongside him and watched the grey abode with mild interest.

"We're checkin' that house."

The marshal pushed her sunglasses over her forehead and unsheathed her machete and muffled gun. She observed the area around her. The property was surrounded by a simple wooden fence that was almost hidden by the uncut grass. The house itself looked old and abandoned. Of course, how abandoned they would find out in a few moments.

"Stay behind me." Daryl leveled his crossbow as they stepped on the porch.

Samara rolled her eyes. Even at the end of the world, men still had to beat their chests and act like cavemen. But at least if a walker decided to surprise them, then Dixon would take the blow.

Without a shred of grace or subtlety, Daryl kicked the double doors open. The noise it produced made Samara wince.

"Couldn't you, I don't know, try the handle first?"

Daryl slowly turned towards her, a glare darkening his pale irises.

"Just a thought."

With a deep breath to calm his temper, the hunter carefully walked forward. Daryl almost cursed out loud at the squeaky floorboards. This house was old as dirt and it was verbalizing it to everyone that stepped foot in it. Both hunter and marshal checked the first floor rooms carefully. The house seemed stripped of almost all its furniture and any other accessories. It looked like someone had been in a hurry to leave.

Samara motioned to Daryl that she was going up the stairs and surprisingly he let her. Carefully, she stepped on the rickety stairs as she ascended. At the second floor, she found four doors—all closed. With the butt of her machete she banged on the first door several times and listened for any sounds.

Nothing.

Carefully, she checked each room and was pleasantly surprised to find them all in the same state as the ones below. With a sigh, she settled on the bed in the master bedroom. This was a waste of time, she thought, there wasn't even anything salvageable left in the house.

Samara didn't even blink when she heard footsteps in the hall, but she did aim her gun at the open door. Once Daryl came into view, the man tensed at the sight of the weapon and his crossbow was aimed at her in a knee-jerk reflex.

They stayed like that for several moments, before Samara quirked a brow and lowered her gun. "You never know."

With an aggravated grunt, Daryl lowered his crossbow. "Think Sophia's been here."

"How do you figure?"

"Found a can of tuna that's been opened a day or two ago and there's blankets in the kitchen pantry."

"Could be anyone."

The hunter shook his head. "Pantry's too small for an adult."

"Well, it's not like it matters. If the girl was here, she isn't now. Doubt she will come back."

"She could." With a grunt, the man walked back into the bowels of the house.

Samara followed after a moment. She was beginning to wonder if Daryl actually believed the girl was still alive.

* * *

Daryl had written on the kitchen table a message for Sophia with a marker he found lying on the floor. If the person that had lived here was her and she would come back, a little bit of reassurance would do her some good.

_**Sophia, stay here and hide in the pantry. I'll be back tomorrow. Mama.**_

Samara watched him coolly as he scribbled. Every now and then the ink would run out and he would almost flatten the marker against the hard surface in annoyance.

With a sigh, Samara left the house via the back exit and waited for him outside. The marshal watched the wild vegetation surrounding the house with detachment. Everything was so still; it would have made another person nervous, but Samara was grateful for it. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. The smell of summer and wild grass hit her olfactory senses and calmed her nerves. A small genuine smile spread over her lips. This was one of those rare moments where she had peace of mind, where nothing could disturb her.

"Quit your daydreamin'."

…Except for that.

Samara's eyes opened in time to see the hunter pass her by. The marshal watched as he slowed down near a bush where a white flower was perched atop it like a shining beacon. The hunter didn't move on as Samara would have believed, but actually stopped and his callous fingers touched the delicate white petals, stroking them gently.

A dark brow rose in disbelief. It was disturbing to see gentleness come from a man like him.

His fingers traced the stem on the flower and plucked it at its base.

"What's with the flower?"

Daryl froze, apparently forgetting the fact that he had an audience. He cursed himself again for his lack of attention. His mind had been completely absorbed by the plant held in his fingers. "Cherokee Rose."

She gave him a blank look.

"Christ, aren't you an Indian?"

"Last time I checked." She deadpanned, but then her brows furrowed. "I know what that flower is. Question is, what's your interest in it?"

His icy blues returned to the fragile piece in his hand. Why did he pick it up? The Rose was a sign of hope for the Cherokee mothers walking the Path of Tears; it was a sign from the gods for them to be strong as their children were dying from exposure, disease and starvation. A single Cherokee Rose bloomed right in this place, where Sophia might have been. Was this a sign to not give up, for him and for the mother? He took it as one.

It was in this moment that his heart and mind became certain that the girl was still alive.

"I guess it's better than lookin' at you." But just because he took it as a sign didn't mean he was going to share it with this cynical woman who would most likely laugh in his face.

Samara's brow twitched and she sneered like she sniffed a particular bad odor.

"We're headin' back."

"Already?" Samara's irritation faded somewhat and she looked towards the sun. It was off the center of the sky which meant it was past noon. She had thought they would be searching until nightfall.

He nodded. They had a good find today and he caught several squirrels for dinner. It was enough.

* * *

This time it only took two hours for them to reach the camp and Samara was grateful for it. Her calf muscles were protesting madly. She hadn't walked this long since she found Wiltshire and back then she barely remembered the discomfort. She had popped another pill to relieve herself of the pain.

Samara observed the camp from a distance. It seemed that everyone settled in nicely and were currently doing their chores. She couldn't see Alistair anywhere, but that didn't alarm her.

Daryl was steps ahead of her eager to retell his find and give the flower to Carol, although that last part made him a bit anxious. He wasn't all that good with kind gestures.

With a last frown to the redneck's back, Samara approached Andrea who was sitting at the picnic table eating from a small can of soup. "What time is it?"

The blonde checked a small wristwatch she kept in her pocket. "About 3:00 PM."

"Anything interesting happen?"

Andrea shrugged and gulped down on a spoonful. "Walker in a well."

Samara paused and a dreary look appeared behind her sunglasses. "Is this one of those 'Timmy fell down the well' jokes?"

"No." Andrea choked a bit on her soup as she snorted in amusement. "I mean we literally found a walker in a well." She pointed off towards the object in question. "We sealed it off, though. There were…_complications_ when we tried to get it out. Best to never drink from it again."

Samara stood there a few seconds before, "Huh."

And with that she walked to her tent, eager to get rid of the excess weight she had on her and start cleaning her weapons.

* * *

Not even ten minutes in that Rick decided to grace her with his presence. The sheriff crouched low on the ground opposite her and watched as all her guns were placed around her, some in pieces.

Samara noticed from a quick peek that his signature hat was gone which she found a bit off putting. He didn't look whole without it.

"Daryl told me about the house." His elbows rested on his bended knees. "Said he was gonna check it back tomorrow. You up for it?"

She shrugged as she wiped the Glock's barrel. She still needed time to get comfortable with the area, and today hadn't been so intolerable in that man's company.

"I hope nothin' happened."

A faint smirk appeared. "You mean with me and Dixon, or just in general?"

Rick gave her a look.

"Nothing of note." She mused as she inspected the clean Glock.

"Good. I hope it stays that way." Rick watched as she picked up another handgun and started disabling it. The next few moments were going to be a struggle with her. "Samara, I'm gonna need your guns."

"No." She refused without pausing from her work.

"You heard Hershel."

"I don't care."

He breathed out deeply, feeling his tension rising. "Samara, you can keep the machete and if problems arise we can get our guns back. You can have them when you're goin' off the farm."

It was only then that she stopped and gave the man a serious look. "Strategically speaking, how good do you think that idea is, sheriff?"

"Not very, I know." The time getting in and out of the RV with guns for so many people would create a clutter. The absence of his gun at his hip made him feel bare and vulnerable. "But it's his land, his rules. I don't want Hershel throwin' us off his land just because you decided not to cooperate. There are more people here at stake than just you."

"What about Fort Benning?" Wasn't that where they decided to go?

"I don't know." To be honest, he hadn't thought of Benning in some time, not since Sophia disappeared and now—"Hershel expects us to leave when Carl gets better. I've asked him to reconsider, but…I don't know."

It was inevitable, Samara thought. This place would never be a permanent one, despite what Rick may have deluded himself into thinking. He relied on the decency of human nature in a world where there was barely any left.

"Did you really believe he would let you stay here?"

He chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, I did."

"Grimes, these people have no idea what it's like out there. From what I learned from the sisters, they believe that the walkers are just _sick_ people."

Rick gave her a startled look.

"Yeah, I know." She snorted grimly. "They think there's a cure for it. That all of this is just passing and that the world will return to normal."

The sheriff closed his eyes and leaned back on his haunches. Well, that certainly changes things. If Hershel thought that the virus was just transitory then Rick understood why the farmer didn't see the reason to let them stay on his land. If Hershel knew just how bad things were, would that change his mind? The old man was stubborn. It would probably take something close to a real life demonstration for him to change his mind and Rick had no intention of bringing walkers here.

He'll just have to try and speak to him again. Force him to see with words.

Rick extended his hand and Samara knew what he was asking for. With a grimace, she handed her guns over. Every fiber in her being screamed at her that this was wrong. That she should hold onto the objects that have saved her life more than once. But Hershel…If she wanted to assert her place among his people she had to comply with his wishes.

Before Rick could leave the tent with her belongings, Samara's flat voice reached his ears. He internally sighed. He thought that she relented far too easily and now he knew that she was about to argue again.

"What did you think of the funeral?"

Rick turned towards her, confused. He had not expected that. "What do you mean?"

Samara watched him closely and he would be lying if he said he didn't feel unnerved by the intensity in her eyes. She was searching for something and he didn't understand what. A few beats passed before her usual indifference blanketed over, making her appear as though nothing happened.

"Nothing." Samara's irises lit up then in remembrance. "Earlier, what did Shane mean about teaching your people how to shoot?"

"They're gonna need to know, Samara."

"I get that." _Somewhat_. She didn't trust the majority of them not to shoot a toe off. "But I do hope you won't do it here or in the immediate vicinity."

Despite how civil her tone seemed to be, Rick heard the precarious edge to it.

"Shane found a good spot two miles away from here. Me and him, we'll be instructin' the others tomorrow mornin'."

_That's not enough_, Samara's mind said. They needed to be at least five miles away from here. "Can't you do it farther away?"

"No."

_Well…that was definite._

Samara warily wondered if Shane was up to the task. It had only been a day at most since he killed Otis and putting him in a position for him to possibly relapse was not a good idea. But Rick could not know this and such made his decision.

At least the sheriff would be there. This way if anything _did_ happen, he would be there to stop it.

With a goodbye nod Rick left the tent. She truly was too paranoid for her own good, the sheriff thought. If what Shane told him about sound attracting walkers, then they were safe here. The gunshots wouldn't be coming from this vicinity, so no undead would be coming for the farm.

He then suddenly frowned, remembering her inquiry. Was there something at the funeral that he had missed?

That dreaded feeling at the pit of his stomach flared again. When Shane had returned, he was carrying Rick's Colt. He had given it to Otis, not Shane. There was this small rotten, nagging uncertainty in the sheriff that he had deliberately shot down last night. His friend had just returned with the supplies needed to save his son and he wasn't about to go digging into what exactly happened there anytime soon…or ever.


	7. Mountain Goat Plans for Winter

**Note:** So this would be the 'Chupacabra' and in between this episode and 'Proper Secrets'. Not everything that happened in that episode is gonna happen here. Like Daryl's fall off the horse and Carl getting on his feet (let's face it, he was shot in the gut, he'd probably need a few days until he can walk). Oh, and Glenn doesn't discover the barn full of walkers yet.

**PS:** It seems that once I announced the lack of romance I immediately lost a follower. Huh…If that isn't a kick in the vagina I don't know what is. Can't blame him/her though, I'm kind of the same. I lack any romance in my life so stories about favorite character finding love and all that are what fuels my heart.

But you have to understand, I've read a lot of shotgun romances that I just **can't** push two characters together without a good fucking reason and knowing of each other. Life doesn't work that way, not even in fiction. I try to keep things as real as possible.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

The rest of the day and night had passed slowly, leading to morning. It was the first time in three months that Samara had not felt the immediate need to watch her surroundings every few minutes. This was a mistake on her part. She could not be lulled into a false sense of security even though every muscle in her body wanted to—to just stop and rest. If she listened to it, she would be signing her death warrant.

Always be vigilant—that was her motto in this new world. Had followed it to the letter these past months and it had kept her alive. It would be foolish of her to stop now just because she was in a location where walkers didn't frequent, judging by the old farmer's words.

Samara had taken care of Alistair's hind leg early in the morning and left him with Carol before joining the others at Grimes' car. Rick was organizing the teams and the areas which they will walk and mark. As Grimes said last night, she was paired with Dixon. Rick was with Shane—naturally—and Andrea with T-Dog. For a moment, Samara wondered why Carol, Lori or Glenn weren't pitching in. Dale was understandable, he was the sentry and he was old. But Glenn and the women…It's Carol's daughter they were searching for, shouldn't she help? And just because her son was bedridden didn't mean Lori was now indispensable. Rick had said that the boy was out of danger, so there was no excuse for her absence.

And as for Glenn…she had no idea why he was remaining.

"Everyone's gettin' new search grids today. If Sophia made it as far as the farmhouse Daryl and Samara found, she might have gone further east than we've been so far."

Samara was faintly surprised when the young man, Jimmy, offered his help in the search for the girl. Rick would not shirk an opportunity like that and readily accepted his help.

"Nothin' about what Daryl and Samara found screams Sophia to me." Shane said from his position inside the car. The skepticism was blatant in his tone. "Anyone could have been holed up in that farmhouse."

"I said the same thing." Samara grumbled as she readjusted her sunglasses.

"Whoever slept in that cupboard was no bigger than yay-high." Daryl motioned a certain height.

"It's a good lead, either way." Andrea said as she nodded approvingly at the hunter. Daryl not used to such gestures, did as his instincts demanded—he ignored it.

Shane shook his head in disapproval and Samara hid her displeasure behind a mask of apathy. _Another day wasted on searching for a dead girl_, their thoughts resonated.

"We're gonna head over this ridge." Daryl pointed on the map. Dale walked up beside him with the gun bag and Samara's gun holsters and rifle. "Get a bird's eye view of everythin'."

"Good idea." T-Dog said as he grabbed a gun from the bag Dale placed on the hood of the car. "Maybe you'll see your chupacabra up there too."

"Chupacabra?" Rick's eyebrows shot up.

Samara paused in her work of getting the holster around her shoulders. _The reptile-kangaroo hybrid in the Americas that sucks blood?_

"You never heard this?" Dale interjected as he passed around some of the guns. "Our first night in camp, Daryl tells us that the whole thing reminds him of a time when he went squirrel huntin' and he saw a chupacabra."

Jimmy started chuckling, which only aggravated Daryl further as he was the center of attention. "What are you brayin' at, jackass?"

The young man stopped and gave the hunter a skeptical look. "You believe in a blood-suckin' dog?"

"Do you believe dead people walkin' around?"

_Touché._

Samara was adjusting the straps and guns when she heard Daryl say something about slurpees. She had zoned out for a few minutes as she equipped herself and wasn't aware of the conversation in front of her. Before she could ask, the hunter walked away, his path set.

Samara followed as she threw the rifle over her shoulder, already dreading the new day.

* * *

They had about half an hour before they reached the house, Daryl calculated. This time the trek there was shorter than yesterday. They knew where to go and didn't waste time dawdling.

Daryl hoped that the girl went back to the house. The more the days stretched on, the harder his job will be to find her. He really hoped that she didn't go off grid. There was only so much land he could cover.

"So…" He heard her deceptively casual tone. "Chupacabra."

Daryl's eyes closed for a few seconds. He just _knew_ she would bring it up sooner or later. He had hoped that it would be later or not at all.

"Yeah, I believe in it." He continued on when he saw her open her mouth to retort. "And before you start mouthin' off, no, I don't give two damns what you think. If that makes me an idiot, then you're no better. Wendigos…" He snorted.

Samara huffed indignantly. "I wasn't going to say anything of that sort. And just so you know, I don't believe that the undead are actual wendigos. That would be stupid."

It was all well and good when she read old legends and myths, but to believe them…That was another matter entirely.

"And secondly, this chupacabra of yours," She paused for effect. "…did it have a sombrero on?"

Daryl was two seconds away from putting an arrow into her head. It was infuriating how she managed to get under his skin time and time again, and she barely knew him. His brother was the only person that could aggravate him to this degree.

Daryl sped up his pace when she started cackling like a hyena.

* * *

Daryl kicked a chair into the wall with a curse when he found the house empty. No one had been there since the both of them yesterday. He could feel the woman's eyes burning into him and he didn't want to turn around and face her. Daryl didn't want to see the smug look on her face that said 'I told you so'.

"Were you really expecting for her to be here?"

Daryl looked over his shoulder mentally prepared for her attitude, but found no trace of haughtiness—just a somber air that threatened to suffocate him.

"Tch. You're a fool."

And Daryl responded in the only way he ever did when vulnerable. "Better a fool than a cold-blooded bitch like you!"

She didn't even twitch at his attack like she normally would, which only served to aggravate the hunter further. It was the only tell she gave when his words got to her and right now he would do anything to get that response. He needed an excuse to vent his anger.

"At least I have reason. You seem to lack any."

"Reason…" He scoffed. "I wouldn't put you and reason together if my life depended on it."

She frowned. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Really? Was she that blind to her unfounded dislike of him?

"Think it through, since you have _reason_ and all that." He pushed past her and headed outside, leaving Samara to look after him with a veiled dumbfounded expression.

* * *

What _had_ he meant by that, Samara wondered as she followed him.

She was no creature of impulse or irrational behavior. Everything that she had done was calculated and weighted on its pros and cons. Except for that unfortunate incident with the adolescent boy, she had never done anything _stupidly_. Even going to the high-school—she had gotten ammunition and a riffle out of it.

Samara stewed in her thoughts as Daryl led the duo towards the ridge he had been speaking of at camp. The marshal was aware that the ground beneath her feet had started to tip and soon they had started climbing instead of walking, but she became rather peeved when the climbing the ridge proved to be an almost downright vertical climb. She had fought with Dixon on whether or not to chance it—she hadn't wanted to while he insisted on it. He had even gone far enough to say that he understood why she didn't want to climb—she'd probably break a nail or something along those lines.

Halfway up, Samara ruminated on the thought that maybe she should have just waited for him down instead of letting herself be goaded by him.

Daryl and Samara had to cling onto roots and trees to pull themselves up. Every now and then, one of them would slide a foot down, the earth being rather loose in some parts. With every step, Samara felt that old throb in her lower back and almost growled out loud when she couldn't even reach for her pill bottle in fear of losing her footing.

"Hurry up!" Daryl shouted once he reached the top and observed her slow ascend. She still had a way to go.

"I am!" Samara hated the fact that her breath was audible enough to reach the redneck's ears.

"Like hell, you're too slow!" He said impatiently, already looking ahead. He was seriously considering leaving her behind. She could just follow his tracks.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She scowled as she grabbed a tree root to pull herself up. "Let me grow hooves so I can climb like a mountain goat!"

"It _would_ suit you." He murmured sardonically. "That along with a pitchfork."

"Did you say something?" Her eyes narrowed as she heard him whisper.

"I'm gonna be just a few feet away." The moment the words left his mouth, he disappeared from Samara's vision.

"I'll miss you, _truly_."

With frustration and soreness clouding her judgment, she didn't notice that the tree she grabbed onto was loosely rooted into the ground. Samara's mind went blank when the tree gave way and she felt gravity do its work. The marshal let out a soundless scream as the she slid across the earth in rapid succession. Her fingers dug into the ground with fervor, grabbing onto anything that would stop her descent. She knew that if she didn't stop soon she was going to reach the bottom and most likely break a bone or two…or die.

She mentally cursed when the path below her was free of any kind of stable plant as they all either slipped from her grasp or broke at the seams. Samara almost let out a cry of relief when her fingers grabbed hold of a batch of woodland vines and her drop stopped abruptly. Not even a second later pain shot up her arm. The sharp vines had slid across her gloved palm furiously and tore the fabric and the skin beneath. She saw that some of the vines were blotched with vivid crimson.

_Fuck._

Samara was frozen in fear, but she knew she couldn't remain like this—the vines could snap at any moment. Her brain worked fanatically and she noticed that she had only slipped a couple of meters. She still had a long way to go down, but she did not entertain the fought of descending again, so she looked up ahead. She did _not_ want to call out to Dixon. She wasn't in that immediate danger and besides, he had already saved her once. She wasn't a goddamn damsel in distress!

On her left were several trees with thick vines that she had used in her climb. With a deep breath, she dug her feet into the ground securely and stretched out her injured arm towards the closest tree. Unfortunately the trunk was too far away, but its roots were in immediate distance. Her fingers and the vines were separated by merely a few inches and Samara groaned when she came to the conclusion that she'll have to propel herself to them.

The marshal took a deep breath before she loosened her left foot and moved it upwards so it bended at the knee. She dug her boot into the earth deeply. That foot was her propeller; if the earth underneath it gave away, she would fall. Her other foot she loosened from the ground and Samara internally panicked when all the movement broke some of the vines. Samara prayed to the Holy People that they wouldn't give in, not just yet.

When none of the other vines broke, Samara went back to work. Her whole body felt on fire, the adrenaline warming her system to an insufferable degree.

_This is it_, Samara thought with dread and excitement mixed together.

With two deep breaths she applied all the force in her body in her left leg and pushed herself upwards, her left arm already stretched and ready to grab hold of the vines. Her right leg was loose from the earth and her right hand let go of the thin vines. For a second Samara was in the air, nothing to hold her down. She even felt the earth beneath her left foot give way at the added weight.

With a pain filled grunt she caught the wide vines with her injured hand and stuck to them like a baby monkey to its mother. Her other hand immediately came up and wrapped its way around a more flexible creeper.

The marshal closed her eyes and let out the breath that she had been holding. She did it.

Her eyes opened to look up towards her goal.

_Now comes the hard part._

* * *

Daryl had lost track of time as he stared out into the valley. The ridge gave him a good view of the forest. He could even see the creek they had followed at the highway. It was a good thing he came here, now he had a better understanding of the territory.

His mind was mentally mapping areas to search in the next few days when he heard a rustle and a groan behind him followed by the sound of a body hitting stone. His eyes rolled, it seems the woman finally decided to join him. _Took her long enough. _He'd seen children climb faster than her.

He was about to tell her that when he turned around, but stopped short once he noticed blood on the ridge's grey plateau. Blood in the shape of a handprint.

The woman was on her back, breathing heavily with sweat pouring down her face. One of her legs was bended while the other was dangling over the edge. Her clothes were dirty and he could see that her left palm was torn with red painted all over her glove.

"Shit, what the hell did you do?" He rushed to her and snaked his arms under her armpits to pull her away from the ledge.

Samara hissed at his actions as they put a strain on her already bruised body. "Let me go, dammit!"

Daryl did and placed her upper half gently on a large rock. Carefully, he slung the rifle away from her shoulders and placed it on the ground. Samara pushed against him with her free arm when he took a hold of her injured hand and started to peel the glove off to see the extent of the gash.

"Stop that." He warned her when a cherry-brown boot crashed into his shin.

"I don't need your help." The dirt on her face and clothes, along with the disheveled hair made her look like a wild woman.

"Fine, do it yourself then!" He bellowed as he stepped away from her.

Panting, Samara watched the hunter pace like a trapped animal. She could practically see the irritation wafting out of him. Her green eyes tore from his form and looked down to her hand. It was throbbing badly and shaking uncontrollably now that the adrenaline left her.

With a hiss, she carefully peeled the glove off her burning hand and grimaced when she saw the state of her palm. It was worse than she initially thought. The climb had opened the gash further leaving the skin torn off and rivulets of blood flowing freely, but at least it didn't get to the muscles. It troubled her when she saw that dirt was mixed up with the blood. If she didn't treat it soon, an infection would set in.

With a sigh, she looked at the glaring hunter. She hadn't brought any provisions with her this time, something she needed to rectify in the future. "You don't by any chance have a band aid, do you?"

Her answer was his narrowing eyes.

Before Samara could rip off a portion of her once light brown shirt, a rag was dropped in her lap. Samara looked up to Dixon, but he was adamantly looking at anything but her.

"Wrap that around your hand."

Samara inspected the piece of material half expecting for it to be caked in mud, but it was relatively clean. She said nothing as she wrapped the material around her palm, not even giving the hunter a grateful look. Another hiss escaped her once the coarse material touched her open wound. It stung like a bitch.

"What happened?"

"Grabbed a faulty tree." She tied a knot at the back of her palm using her teeth and free hand. "Broke my fall with some vines which also cut my hand."

"Next time watch your footin'."

She nodded absentmindedly as she picked up her rifle and rose to her feet. Her knees were shaking so bad that that Samara had to grab the rock behind her to steady herself.

Daryl didn't offer her any help as he knew she would just hit him again. When dealing with wounded animals it was best to leave them be. At this point he didn't see any difference between Samara and a mountain lion—they would both bite his hand off if he offered it.

Samara threw the rifle back over her shoulders and pulled out the pill bottle from her pant pocket. She wasted no time in dry swallowing one as she approached the edge of the plateau. Gods, what a view. Forest and green fields all around. Any other time it would have been a breathtaking sight. Samara could see the farmhouse Daryl and she found, along with Hershel's farm way out in the distance. There were another few houses miles away.

—But all her thoughts came to the same conclusion.

"You're never going to find that girl."

Daryl frowned at her back, but did not reply. He did not want to start an argument right now.

"There's a path I saw that can take us down." He said as he moved towards the side of the plateau. "It's gonna take longer than just climbin' down, but you're not in any condition to do it."

With a disgruntled look at her hand, Samara followed Daryl. She had just known that it was going to be a shitty day.

* * *

Samara was surprised when the path Dixon had been leading her too was a creek. She could hear the soothing sound of rushing water and Samara was relieved that she would be able to clean the wound.

Not even two minutes later they came upon it. The creek was in a shallow valley and they would have to climb down three meters to reach it. Daryl went ahead first and had to use vines and small pines to reach the creek ground safely. The valley walls weren't as treacherous as the ridge, but there was still a problem—if the ground floor had consisted of earth and grass they could have run down towards it, but unfortunately it was slippery stone that greeted them.

Samara was searching for the easiest accessible path when Daryl shouted up to her. "Come on down, I'll catch you!"

The marshal just gave him a blank look before going back to her search.

Daryl cursed under his breath and tried again. "Just trust me."

"I _don't_ trust you."

"Shit, woman!" The hunter kicked a stone in frustration. "Then slide down and I'll break your fall!"

Samara scowled and told him in detached calm. "I'm not an invalid, I can climb down."

"With what, one hand?" He pointed toward her makeshift bandage. "You try with both, you're just gonna make the injury worse." His finger then motioned to his feet. "Slide your ass down here!"

With a curse, Samara took the rifle off her shoulder and threw it at him. Daryl caught it expertly and slung it over his shoulder. He then planted one foot on the earth wall and the other was wedged between two large stones so he wouldn't slip once her body made contact with his. The hunter hunched his back, planted one hand on the loose earth and the other was held in anticipation to catch the woman.

Samara crouched low until her bottom hit the cool ground and she took a deep breath. If Dixon lied and would let her fall on the creek stones, she'll kill him and blame it on a walker. With a push, Samara stretched her uninjured hand behind her as a break while the useless one was cradled at her chest. Sliding down, she could feel every bump and stone lodged into the earth ripple harshly across her lower half. Thank the gods she was on painkillers otherwise she would be howling in pain.

With a grunt, Daryl caught her around her waist and had to pin her to the soil with his body to stop her from hitting the creek.

With a breath of relief, Samara unclenched her hand from the earth and her legs found purchase on the stony ground. She made sure she was rooted right before pushing the hunter off her.

Daryl disentangled from her immediately as if she were hot coal. With a low huff, he rubbed his cheek on his shoulder in attempt to wipe off the heat that accumulated there. He desperately hoped that his embarrassment wasn't noticeable in the form of scarlet cheeks.

Daryl mentally criticized himself that he should have found a different way to get her down. The position they had been in was one that he hadn't experienced with a woman in a _very_ long time and it made his body react almost instantly. For a moment, he had felt all of her upper half against him— the warmth of her body, her breath ghosting over his throat, her breasts pressed against his chest. Daryl just thanked God that his lower half was nowhere near hers…he probably would have dropped her in a second.

Samara was busy brushing herself off to notice his distress. Unlike the hunter, Samara had no problem with being _physically_ close to someone. Well, maybe a little considering it was the redneck she had been pressed up against. He was the last person she wanted to be that near to.

"Come on."

They didn't go far, just a short distance where they could sit and not get hit by the rushing water. Samara wasted no time in untangling the rag from her palm and dipping her hand in the cool stream. A breathy sigh left her lips and Samara didn't notice Daryl's uncomfortable shift beside her.

She tuned out the hunter for a good few minutes as she cleaned her hand vigorously. She needed to get all the dirt out of her cut.

"Wait here." Daryl said as he handed her her rifle and stepped over some stones to get across the creek. "Don't wrap your hand yet."

The marshal watched as the hunter followed the creek down and disappeared behind some large stream vegetation. With him gone, Samara started cleaning the rest of her arms and face. She did not bother with the clothes as there was no reason to get all of herself wet, but she did wipe the areas where Dixon's body touched hers. Samara grumbled under her breath about personal hygiene and sweat and something that suspiciously sounded like 'push him in the creek'.

Daryl had come back not ten minutes later holding several green leaves in his hand which he promptly handed to her.

"Here. Put these on the wound."

Samara looked at her hand full of leaves then at Dixon. "What is this? Poison ivy?"

Botany wasn't one of Samara's best points, but she had a small amount of knowledge. She knew the native Arizona plants by heart, but anything other than that was a mystery to her. Back then she hadn't counted on ever needing to know.

"Broadleaf plantain. Good for burns."

With raised brows, Samara wondered why he even bothered. She wasn't his favorite person, she was very aware of that. If their positions had been reversed, the marshal wouldn't have done the same for him. With uneasiness, Samara placed the leaves on her gash. It stung, but for once she trusted the man that he bore no ill intentions towards her. She really hoped she wasn't being made a fool, and that she was actually applying a plant that would give her a rash or cause gangrene.

Samara paused in her work when she saw Dixon's eyes slid to her ring finger, a thoughtful expression settling on his face.

"Surprised?" Her fingers flexed and Daryl's concentration was disrupted.

He shrugged, looking away from her. "Can't see you havin' a husband."

Samara let out a cheerless huff._ Neither did I._

It was true. Daryl had been wondering it since the moment she took her glove off at the ridge and revealed the thin golden band. His thoughts had skirted over who would actually be crazy enough to marry this shrew of a woman. Probably someone she could boss around and keep at her heel because for the life of him he couldn't see the woman submitting to anyone.

Her next words startled him out of his thoughts. "I'm guessing you were never married."

He scoffed. Between keeping Merle out of trouble and paying off his debts and bail bonds, and working on multiple jobs, he hadn't had the time for women except for a quick round in his truck. He had learned rather early to never bring any females home since Merle had a way of turning a situation like that into a spectacle for his own amusement.

With a kick of a pebble, Daryl shook off the memories. "We're headin' east for about four miles before goin' back to camp."

"And how are we going to get out of the creek?"

"The walls shorten down ways."

"Why didn't we just go that way in the first place?" A spark of annoyance flared. She just got dirty for a second time for nothing!

"How was I supposed to know the valley shortened down ways?" He scowled at her. "You're hand needed cleanin' right now or would you have preferred an infection?"

Samara broke eye contact with him.

Daryl grunted._ Thought so._

Readjusting his crossbow in his arms, the hunter marched down the creek's plateaus. "Let's go."

* * *

They had reached camp much later than they did yesterday. It was almost 6:00PM when they stepped foot in the Greene's verdant field.

They had found no sign of the little girl as Samara predicted, only two stranglers that they had dispatched quickly.

Samara's hand was throbbing. Not overtly, the plants having run their course, but natural remedies could only do so much. She needed antibiotics and stitches.

The camp was buzzing with activity. Glenn was atop the RV while Dale was underneath the hood of his motor-home, fixing the engine. Alistair was resting in the shade of the large vehicle and when he saw her, he limped towards her. Rick was with Shane, Andrea, T-Dog and Jimmy at his car discussing over the map—probably over the grids. The women or the other Greene's were nowhere to be seen.

Samara saw Glenn wave a hand at them, but neither responded. Samara was too tired to do anything other than walk, and Daryl probably couldn't bother to do it. As yesterday, Daryl broke off and headed towards Grimes and Samara headed towards the house to look for the farmer.

Samara was internally pleased that at least someone was happy to see her. Alistair reached her side and was happily wagging his tail. He was a dog, but these days she couldn't be picky. As per usual, Samara ignored him, but Alistair was not deterred. The only sign Samara gave that she was pleased with the dog was that her pace slowed so Alistair wouldn't be left behind.

Once she and the dog got in range of Glenn and Dale's immediate view, she heard the younger male gasp. That got Dale's attention as he looked from his work and his bushy brows shot up at the dirtied and disheveled look on the woman. His expression turned to full blown worry at the bandaged hand and the blood stained on the material.

"Jesus. What happened to you?" His eyes unconsciously drifted over to Daryl, thinking the worst.

While on better days Samara wouldn't mind everyone thinking that the hillbilly did this to her, she couldn't now. He had gone out of his way to retrieve the leaves.

"Fell down a slope, cut my hand on the way." She had left her tattered glove behind along with its twin. They were beyond repair now.

"You sure you're okay?"

She nodded and continued on her way, not even stopping when Rick asked her the same question. The redneck could explain, she needed Hershel right now.

* * *

Samara was seated on the sofa with Hershel next to her. The old farmer was cleaning her wound with antiseptics. Alistair was sitting next to her with his head on her bended knee. Samara's free hand was absentmindedly scratching the dog behind the ears.

When she had entered the house, Samara found the women all bundled up in the kitchen preparing what seemed to be a feast. There were two tables filled with plates, one for every occupant on the farm, minus Carl.

Carol had been the first to notice her injury and of course that alerted the others. Samara felt her fatigue accentuate when the women clustered around her asking questions. Patricia had been the one to find Hershel, which led to the both of them sitting on the sofa away from the kitchen.

Samara hissed when Hershel prodded in a more tender area of the cut. The old man apologized and proceeded to stitch her palm.

"You seem rather accident prone."

Samara watched dispassionately as the needle come in and out of her skin. "These days only…How long will it take to heal?"

"I'd say about a week or so."

Samara flexed her fingers once Hershel finished his work a few minutes later.

"Don't strain that hand until the stitches come out." The man said as he placed the objects he had used back in the first-aid kit. "It was smart applyin' those Broadleaf leaves. Stopped an infection from growin'."

"It wasn't me." Samara grumbled uneasily. "Dixon was the one that found them."

"I see. How is your back? Rick told me that you were in an accident."

"Better. The pain's diming gradually." Not as fast as she hoped, but considering she was always on the move it was understandable.

Hershel nodded and picked up his kit prepared to leave. "Dinner's in about an hour. I suggest you get yourself cleaned up." He didn't seem thrilled with the idea, judging by his tone. Who would be? Having strangers occupy his land and then invade his home probably did not fall in what he believed to be acceptable.

"Hershel, thank you." She nodded to him respectfully. "And…I'm sorry about Otis. He didn't deserve to die like that."

In a way, Samara was being truthful. He had died a horrible death, his last thoughts centered on betrayal.

"Otis died to save that boy." Hershel said gravely, his mood dimming. "At least it meant somethin'."

_Just pray you never find out the truth._

"There's something I wish to speak to you about, but I think it would be best after dinner." She needed to further her intentions right now. No more waiting.

The old man watched her closely. He might be old, but Samara could see the wisdom of having lived over half a century in those eyes. "I'll be here."

Samara nodded and watched the farmer disappear into the bowels of his house.

* * *

Samara wiped the bathroom mirror of the steam and studied herself in it. For a second she was aghast as she did not recognize the woman in it.

It looked like her, but not. The person in it looked like she had aged five years in the last three months. Her cheeks had sunken in and the shadows underneath her eyes had accentuated to the point that she resembled a raccoon. The car accident scars had receded only leaving a bruise on her forehead courtesy of Glenn and some small scratches here and there from her fall. She had lost weight; she used to have curves before. Curves that her husband adored. Even her fingers had thinned to the point of them looking like spider limbs. Once or twice she had feared that her wedding ring would fall off if it weren't for the gloves keeping it there. Any fattiness that she might have had was long gone with only lean muscles left.

_Well,_ she mused tiredly as her hand ghosted over her firm abdomen, _at least I finally got my dream body_.

Samara observed her legs, armpits and sex. They were in dire need of a shave. A stray thought passed her mind that said that she indeed looked like a mountain goat.

A cheerless chortle escaped her lips. Damn it. She had involuntarily insulted herself.

Samara tugged at her dark hair. It had grown in these past months, now reaching past her shoulders. It needed to be shortened for practical reasons. Long hair in the Georgia summer was never a good idea.

Her olive greens slid towards the tattoos on her arms. Even they seemed to have lost their usual luster. Before, she had always been careful so they wouldn't lose their color, but these days she hadn't even bothered anymore. What would it matter in the long run?

Samara didn't even want to delve into how fucked up her psyche was. That was a Pandora's Box she never wanted to open lest she be swallowed whole.

All in all, she was a pale shadow of herself.

_John…What has become of me?_

With a sigh, Samara wretched her gaze from her double and clothed herself in the fresh batch of clothes she had brought with her. Dark green cargo pants, a faded black top, her cowboy boots and this time she tied her hair up into a ponytail. Tomorrow she would cut it.

The last article was the wedding band and necklace which she had cleaned first before attending to herself. The necklace wasn't that important, it was just an old heirloom that didn't mean anything anymore. There was no one she could pass it on too, and she doubted there would ever be. But like the ring, it was an old comfort. They were the last remnants to her past and she didn't feel inclined to part with them yet.

* * *

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair.

Everyone was gathered in the Greene's dining room—the adults at the long table and the younger ones at the 'kiddy' table.

Samara was seated between T-Dog and Dale and if there was an instance in her life where she wished she was battling a horde of wendigos, this was it. The tension felt at the table was almost suffocating.

Alistair wasn't allowed at the table since he had stolen a piece of chicken when it was being set. Samara had to escort him outside by the scruff while berating and cursing the foul beast all along the way. Without an ounce of pity, she shut the door in his face, ignoring the way he scratched at it and whined. If he was going to be a thief then he'll be treated like one!

…Although, she did leave a bowl of water and dog food. It wouldn't do if he died of starvation.

Samara observed the others from underneath her lashes. Everyone was eating quietly, not making eye contact for more than a few seconds. Rick was throwing Shane these veiled harsh looks and Samara dimly wondered what happened between the two to create such friction.

Glenn was the first to break the silence and it was unwelcome, although he didn't seem to notice. He asked if anyone knew how to play the guitar Dale found at the highway. Nobody answered. That is until Patricia spoke, which was similar to the other shoe dropping.

"Otis did."

If it was possible for the room to become even more unbearable it was now. That pretty much put an end to the conversation and the rest of the dinner was held in silence.

After dinner, the group had scattered outside. Lori and Carol had stayed behind to help the Greene sisters with the cleaning up. Samara had stayed behind also, but for different reasons altogether. She patiently waited for the moment to speak with Hershel alone.

It only took a few minutes before the old man appeared. He gave her one look before motioning for her to follow. Samara shot a glance at the kitchen in case any of the women saw them, but they were too preoccupied with their tasks than look behind.

Samara followed Hershel to a secluded room at the back of the house. It was a small study, most likely Hershel's. The books on the rafters caught her interest. Samara made a mental note to ask for one in the near future, something to stave off the boredom.

"So, what is it you wanted to talk about?" Hershel leaned against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

"First of all, I know how difficult this must be for you, having all these strangers on your land. But I am grateful to you and your family for letting me stay."

"Not 'us'?"

"I'm not with them. I may have arrived here with Grimes and his people, but they are not my group."

"I see. Then why are you still here?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Samara took a small step closer to Hershel just enough to have his complete attention. "I want you to know that if there's anything you need—work on the farm, supply gathering, protecting your people, hunting—I can provide it."

Hershel's brows rose minutely, but he said nothing.

"I'm a US Deputy Marshal, or I used to be one." She needed to sell all her skills that would be an asset to the farmer. "I know my way around firearms. If you want I can even teach your people how to shoot. I'm also good at tracking. I've been doing it since I was a child and hunting is no stranger to me." That last part was a bit of a lie, but she had time to get better at it. "Otis was the hunter in your family, wasn't he?"

"…He was."

"I know I can never take his place and this is probably too soon to say, but you're going to need provisions for the winter and that means a lot of meat. I'm aware of the preservation process. My grandparents had a small ranch and I've assisted my grandfather in preparing meat for winter. And…you might not want to believe me, but not everyone alive out there is decent. There are some people that survived this world that once they see a place like this, they would do anything to have it. _Anything_. I can protect your family from people like that."

The only sign that her words reached the old farmer was an extra frown line appearing on his forehead.

"I'm guessin' you're not tellin' me this out of the goodness of your heart." Hershel said suddenly and there was that gleam in his eyes that told her he already knew what she wanted. "What do you want in exchange?"

"A permanent place on your farm." Samara's back straightened and her eyes hardened. "I won't even ask for a place inside or a share of rations, I can take care of myself in that department. I just want to remain on the land. I will stay out of your way if you so want it."

Hershel uncrossed his arms and breathed in deeply. She was asking something similar to what Rick did. The only difference is, he didn't know anything about the woman—character wise. If she was a good person or a snake. She had offered blood to the boy and went back for the mother without getting anything in return. And then she left to find Otis and Shane. All of this and she wasn't even a part of their group.

Hershel wasn't a fool. He could see that she hadn't done all of that because she was being altruistic. Whatever her motives were, he could not see them as being wicked. The woman was looking after herself.

But the question is, could he trust her?

"I'll have to think about it."

Samara nodded. It was better than nothing.

* * *

As the marshal exited the house, everyone else was turning in for the night while T-Dog was climbing atop the RV as his shift was starting. Alistair was already at the entrance of Samara's tent waiting for his master to open the flap so he could bolt inside.

The marshal noticed that the hunter was outside his tent on a small folding stool, smoking a cigarette. He was hunched over himself, his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground.

"How's your hand?" The low unforeseen question stopped her in her tracks. Samara's head turned to him and noticed that he hadn't moved one inch, but she could feel his eyes on her.

"Needed stitches, but it's good now." Her fingers twitched. The nicotine reached her nostrils and Samara couldn't help but breathe in deeply. She was really craving a cigarette right now, but she'll be damned if she asked him for one since she could anticipate his answer.

With a nod, Daryl went back to staring at the ground, lost in his thoughts.

A minute passed before his eyes settled back on the unmoving marshal. She was just standing there watching him.

"What?"

The marshal shifted restlessly before taking a step closer to him. Daryl immediately tensed, apprehensive of the woman's peculiar nature.

"Dixon…" She started as she stopped a short distance from him. "Thank you for the leaves." Her voice was low and soft, a big difference from its usual sarcastic self, but Daryl could still detect the faint traces of reluctance. "You didn't have to do it, you know?"

It had been such a small thing, just a few leaves for a cut. But she couldn't understand why he bothered. They were neither comrades nor friends, just two strangers stuck together. It wasn't like it had been some serious situation where she lost a few fingers or a hand, just her palm being a bit banged up. She didn't stick her neck out for people for those kinds of situations, so why would he?

Daryl's eyes averted again to the ground as her probing gaze made his skin pucker. "Either that or I listen to you bitch about the pain."

Samara's lips quirked. "Ah, of course, my bitching."

Her head tilted to one side and a curios expression settled over her face. "Déjà vu, huh?"

Startled, Daryl's eyes popped back to her. He didn't understand what she was alluding to.

"You keep helping me like this people are going to start talking."

Daryl tensed further and his eyes moved behind her to see if anyone was watching them. Except for T-Dog, everyone else was already inside their sleeping abodes and the man atop didn't seem to be looking in their direction.

"That was humor." Samara said as she observed his nervous behavior. Was he afraid of what the others would think of him?

The hunter's eyes narrowed into slits. "You're shit at it."

"I know." She nodded wryly, before her expression settled into a more serious one. "I won't be joining you tomorrow. Got some things I want to do."

Daryl shrugged as he took a drag from his cigarette. He'll finally get some peace and quiet, at least.

With a last deep inhale that made Daryl's hackles rise, Samara stepped back to her tent.

Daryl watched her as she entered her meager dwelling with the dog right behind her. Not even half a minute later, the dog was pushed out of the tent by a cherry-brown boot and the flap zipped up before he could even turn around. With a raised brow, Daryl watched as the dog pathetically pawed at the tent.

After minutes of silence from the other side, Alistair gave up. Daryl's eyes narrowed further when the dog turned to him with wide puppy dog eyes.

_He better not think it, _Daryl thought irritated as he finished his cigarette.

When the dog took a few steps towards him, Daryl sprinted into his tent. His tent wasn't a kennel; the mutt should sleep outside where he belongs.


	8. Cracks

**Note:** I don't know if all you guys readers have read 'I Walk the Line' but if you want an image of Samara search for Julia Jones, the actress. She's pretty much the face of Samara, only with green eyes and tattoos.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

Everyone in camp was up and about by the time morning came. All except for Lori. Samara noticed without much enthusiasm that the sheriff's wife had been oversleeping these past few days. Stress because of Carl or she was just taking her sweet time. If it was the latter, then she just lost some respect points in Samara's eyes.

Rick was organizing the search groups when Samara interrupted him.

"Samara you and Daryl can—"

"Not today." She shook her head as she readjusted the holsters. "I'm going to that town a distance from here. Scavenge anything that's useful."

"I'll go with you. I was already planning on taking a trip there." Glenn said.

"If there is anything needed from there, I'll pick it up."

She hoped that her message was obvious. She wanted to be alone. Samara had been with the group for almost a week now and she hadn't been able to have even a few minutes to herself. After almost three months of seclusion, being thrust into a social gathering like this has worn her out—physically and mentally. She needed to recharge her batteries.

"Sorry Samara, someone's gotta go with you. We've already established that everyone goes out in pairs." Rick said as he gave her a stern look. "Glenn goes with you or you don't go at all."

The marshal's eyes narrowed. She was seconds away from a rather verbal argument when Shane spoke up.

"I'll go as well." At the scowl that marred her face, Shane shrugged. "You won't even know I'm there."

Samara let out a ragged breath and she hoped to all that is holy that Shane saw the fury in her eyes. Their gazes stayed locked for several—uncomfortable for the others—beats. Like two predators seizing each other up, waiting for the other to make the first move so it could pounce.

As it were, Samara broke the lock and her eyes slid to Jimmy, who fidgeted under her fierce glare.

"How well do you know the layout of the town?"

"Pretty well. It's a one lane town."

"Will I need a map?"

"Not really. All the stores have signs on them. You can't get confused."

Without another word, Samara left to gather her things for the trip. She may not have raised her voice once, but her low words had the same effect as an erupting volcano.

Rick sighed. So much for starting to learn how to cooperate with others.

"She doesn't like you people much, does she?" Jimmy gave the woman a glance over his shoulder. The dog that was always following her around ran out of her way when she approached the tent like a raging bull. The force with which she swung the tent flap open had the teenager wince.

"Woman's got issues." Shane said as he also left for his tent, not bothered by Samara's silent aggressive display.

"She's just not used to so many people around." Rick explained to the boy and then he turned to the hunter who had been watching silently this whole time. "Daryl, since Samara won't be going with you—"

The hunter grunted as he buttoned up his long sleeve shirt. "I'll go alone. Anyone else would just slow me down."

"Are you sure?"

"Just try to send someone else with me." Daryl huffed as he walked towards the forest.

Rick rubbed his temple in aggravation.

"I'm guessin' he also has issues?" Jimmy asked with a sly smile.

"You have _no_ idea."

* * *

The trio had decided to take Shane's Hyundai and, as such, Samara was throwing her backpack with provisions into the backseat. Shane had left to gather their guns while Glenn was running around camp, making list of what people needed.

For the umpteenth time Samara sighed as Alistair kept attempting to jump into the open backseat of the car.

"No." Samara pushed him away with her boot, but the stubborn dog persisted.

With a hiss of annoyance, Samara helped him in the backseat. If he got eaten by a walker or made his sprain worse, then it would be his own damn fault. Alistair's ears perked up as he looked over Samara's shoulder. The marshal turned to see what captured the herder's interest—it was Dale.

"What is it?"

Dale stopped by open door, a wary look on his rugged face. "I just wanted to tell you to watch yourself out there. And watch over Glenn too."

Samara sighed. This was just getting ridiculous. "I can take care of myself and I'm sure the kid can also."

"I don't mean with walkers."

The marshal paused and she eyed Dale carefully. There was an apprehensive, somber look on him that put the marshal on edge.

It didn't take long for her to figure out who he was talking about. "Shane?"

"Just…" The older man shifted uneasily as he looked behind him towards the RV where Shane disappeared. "Have him in your sights at all times."

"What is this about, Dale?"

Dale's brows furrowed as a dark look passed over his eyes. "You're observant, aren't you Samara? Didn't you find anything odd about the funeral?"

Samara's eyes narrowed fractionally. It seems Daryl wasn't the only one who found Shane's story defective.

_Shit._

"It was a funeral."

Dale shook his head. "No, I mean with Shane."

"Explain." Samara put on a show of having all her attention when she was actually coming up with ways on how to divert Dale from creating further problems.

"You were there when Otis died. Do you believe his story?"

"Dale, I was on the other side of the school. I don't know what happened." It was true, she hadn't _seen_ it. "Second, shouldn't I believe him?"

"I don't." The man shook his head convincingly. "I think he left Otis to die. He said it himself, there were dozens of walkers behind him and Otis. Shane had a sprained ankle, you were nowhere in sight, how else was he supposed to escape that?"

"Otis sacrificed himself."

Dale shook his head again and there was an intensity to him that made Samara aware that the old man knew something they didn't. "I know what kind of man Shane is. I know what he's capable of." Flashes of that time at the Atlanta camp when Shane pointed a gun at the back of Rick's head passed through his mind. "That man's unhinged. He's been from the moment Rick stepped foot in camp. I don't know when he'll snap, but when he does…God help us if he has a gun in his hand."

Was Shane worse than she initially thought or did Dale just really dislike the man? But the credible look in his eyes made Samara pause uneasily. "Why are you so sure that Shane is dangerous?"

"Just…just trust me on this. I saw somethin' a while ago that made me wary of the man."

"What?"

"It—it doesn't matter." Dale wasn't ready to share his knowledge of that incident. Not with Samara at least, he didn't know her that well.

She waved him off already tired of their conversation. "I think you're blowing this out of proportions, Dale."

"I don't. I thought about tellin' Rick, but I don't think he'll believe me."

Her lips downturned a fraction. _What a nuisance_. "Tell him what? That his best friend killed a man to bring back the medicine for his dying son?"

"Yes!" Dale returned his volume back to normal, lest he attract attention on themselves. "We can't have someone like that runnin' around the camp."

Samara then frowned, her lips pursing in displeasure. "You think just because he's _hypothetically_ killed someone that he's a danger to your group." It wasn't even a question.

"Yes!"

"…I see." In that respect, that meant that Dale would consider her a threat if he knew how casually she regarded human life these days. "Well Dale, you're forgetting one important factor. There's no evidence. This is just speculation on your part and Rick will never listen to just what you _might_ think."

_He never does._

"I know." Dale breathed out tiredly.

"Look Dale, I'm not going to say anything about this. But if you do, I won't stop you." Now for the guilt-trip. She forced an ominous look on her face and hardened her tone so the words would drive home. "Just understand that creating another rift in this already dysfunctional group isn't going to help any of you. Try to see the consequences of revealing your suspicions to the others, to the Greene's. They would throw all of _us_ off his land, we'd all be on the road again, no hope in sight and I'm pretty sure _your _suspicions might actually break the group this time."

Samara internally patted herself on the back when she saw Dale recoil as if bitten, but there was also that old part of herself that was disgusted that she had to do this to an old man who was only concerned for his newfound family.

"If Shane's mental health does deteriorate then Grimes won't be able to deny it and he'll be dealt with." She gave him at least that hope, although she couldn't see the sheriff dealing with it effectively. The only way to tame a mad dog is by putting it down. Samara just hoped it wouldn't come to that. It would probably shatter the sheriff's already cracked core.

Dale left Samara once he saw Shane exit the RV. The marshal watched the old man's departing back with a grim look. This was a problem and dammit, Dale just dumped it into her lap!

And now said 'mad dog' was heading her way.

"What did Dale want?" He asked as he handed her her guns and holsters.

"Just saying bon voyage."

Shane grunted and she could see that he didn't believe her. When he was about to place his shotgun in the backseat he came face to face with the marshal's dog. "He's comin' too?"

"Apparently."

While he wasn't excited for the dog shedding and slobbering over his seats, he wasn't about to argue over the animal. The man looked over the area and found Glenn talking with Lori.

"Glenn, let's go! We're losin' daytime!" Shane shouted out as he closed the back door and rounded on the car.

Glenn joined then not a minute later and took a seat next to Alistair while Samara was riding shotgun and Shane was behind the wheel.

With a sigh, Samara watched the farmhouse become smaller and smaller with each second until it disappeared completely.

* * *

Shane, Glenn and Samara had stopped the car outside the town limits on the insistence of the marshal. If walkers came, she didn't want to be encircled by them if they left the car in the town.

They were now slowly walking the main road, eyes searching for any signs of danger. Glenn was ahead of them with Alistair and he didn't seem threatened by his surroundings. He'd been here before and saw no sign of walking corpses.

"So, what do you want to pick up?"

"Everything useful." She answered Shane's question. "I want to reduce the trips into town so we don't encounter any other survivors."

Shane nodded, seeing her train of thought. If anyone passing by caught them on a run it could spell disaster for the group. They didn't need strangers knowing they were here or, worse, finding the farm. Shane wasn't an idiot to believe that their group was the only one that would want to stay on a farm that had little to no interaction with the virus. He'd be damned if he let anyone try to harm Lori or Carl.

The trio stopped in the middle of the road and observed the area. It was void of any life or unlife.

"We're gonna raid the food stores and the pharmacy." Shane started as he readjusted his cap. "Take everythin' we need, don't leave anythin' behind even if we don't need it right now."

"Okay. I'm going to the pharmacy." There was something there that he needed to get without the others knowledge. He had contemplated asking Samara what exactly Lori had requested him to find since he wasn't familiar with women's hygiene products. He had no idea what 'True Blue' was and Lori had been adamant in not detailing. But, he did promise to keep it to himself and so had refrained from speaking with the marshal.

"Then _we_'ll take the food stores." Shane said as he readjusted his shotgun as he gave Samara a meaningful stare.

Samara unholstered her muffled gun as she addressed Glenn. "Take Alistair with you. He'll be your watch."

Glenn nodded and motioned for the dog to follow. Alistair offered no resistance as he limped along the young man.

Samara and Shane headed back down the lane, while Glenn and Alistair continued on.

As much as Samara didn't want to stay with Shane, she had a feeling he would have insisted on them being paired up. The marshal was walking a few feet behind Shane. She didn't forget Dale's warning to have him in her sights at all time. While the old man's words were handy, she would have kept Shane in front of her either way. Just like Daryl and everyone else for that matter.

"Your husband…What happened to him?" Shane suddenly asked, making Samara steps hitch.

"Why are you here?" Samara countered. If this was his way of easing into a conversation, she'll strangle him.

"Can't I just help?"

"Not when I'm involved." Her eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Shane?"

The man huffed with a smirk. "You're pretty cocky to think I want anythin' from you."

A beat. Two.

"Fine then." Her tone was final and Shane heard it rather than saw it that she was tuning him out.

Shane turned around and waited for her to catch up. She didn't, she actually stopped. With a frown Shane took a step closer to her only to have the marshal take a step back.

They both remained frozen, Shane in incredulity and Samara in vigilance.

"You afraid of me?" His voice was low and soft.

She shook her head and Shane damned her for wearing those sunglasses that hid her eyes. "Just cautious."

His brows rose in astonishment. "You think I'm gonna shoot ya?"

"I'm just not sure why you came along."

The man took off his cap and ran a hand over his shaved head. "I just wanted to talk."

"And I thought I told you I didn't."

"Christ, I'm beginin' to wonder if threatenin' you with a gun is the only way to make you listen." Shane's eyes narrowed and he spat on the ground.

"Trust me, a lot of people have had the same idea."

"I bet." He grunted and picked up his pace again. He didn't need to turn around to know that Samara was following. "I don't want to talk about _that_. I actually wanted to talk to you about Sophia."

"Couldn't you have done this at the camp?"

"In case you haven't noticed, there ain't much privacy there. And you're always runnin' around with Dixon, so I just took the first opportunity."

"Fine. Talk."

"Do you believe this girl is alive?" Shane heard a loud un-ladylike snort and his suspicions were confirmed. "I'm guessin' that I'm not the only one who thinks searchin' for her is a waste of time."

"You wouldn't."

"Rick doesn't understand." Shane remembered his discussion with his friend in the forest. "He still believes we're gonna find that girl and everythin' will be alright like it's a fuckin' fairy tail."

Samara shrugged. That sort of thinking was expected from Grimes. "He likes to see the bright side of life."

"Well his 'bright side' is gonna get us all killed." His voice was getting more guttural and Samara could detect the hints of loathing. "We should be movin' on instead of sendin' out all our people in the forest. We should have stopped searchin' at the highway. That girl is either dead or undead. Sometimes it's better not to know."

His voice then dimmed into a whisper. "Sooner or later, one of us is gonna die out there and it's gonna be on his head." Shane then sighed warily. "I'm just tryin' to keep us all safe."

"How very noble of you."

She received an annoyed glare for her unwanted jab.

"You can rant all you want, stomp your feet…Grimes will never listen. Not until something like what you just said happens or you people find the girl. Alive, dead or undead."

"So, I guess we'll be one member short soon."

They stopped talking once they reached the first store. Shane took the lead as Samara covered his back. Carefully, Shane turned the knob and was relieved to find it unlocked. Neither could see much of the inside since the windows were covered by thick, dark curtains, but they could see the form of the rows where food was supposed to be stocked.

Samara sidestepped towards the windows and pulled the curtains aside. The light of morning invaded the small shop, illuminating the interior. As predicted, barely anything was left on the shelves.

Shane banged on one of the rows with the end of his shotgun to gain the attention of any undead interlopers. Several minutes passed before Shane and Samara deemed the front relative safe. They spread out and searched the rows for crawlers, fatigued walkers and anything that was salvageable.

"Anything?"

"Found some Pringles."

The man sighed as he walked up to the counter and searched for anything there. Again nothing.

"I'm gonna check the back. Maybe they have somethin' in the storage."

Samara waved him off and continued with her search in the front. She'd found some warm soda cans and an M&amp;M bag. She was intolerant to chocolate, so she'll probably pawn the bag off to someone.

Shane appeared after about ten minutes carrying a case full of canned food and a bag of dry dog chow. "Found these stashed in the back. For Alistair."

"Thanks." Finally, she can stop feeding the mutt out of her rations. She inspected the back inscriptions—it was chicken with vegetables. It would do good for his digestion, at least she hoped so. She wasn't really aware of what a dog's diet should consist of.

They spent the next few minutes placing the provisions in their backpacks, before departing. Back on the lane, they moved to the opposite side to restart the process on a convenience store. There had been a walker inside but Shane had dealt with it before Samara could. This time, they had found more provisions and some repair tools which Samara thought Dale could use.

"Shane, you might want to be careful from now on." Samara said as they crammed the finds in their backpacks. The marshal had to retrieve some shopping bags for what couldn't be placed in the bags.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Dale knows your story was horseshit and I believe Dixon thinks the same."

"Shit." He zipped up his bag more forcefully than necessary. "Was it that bad?"

Samara didn't even give a courtesy pause. "You could've worked on it better."

"Well, I had other things on my mind at the time, 'scuze me for not bein' able to come up with the best cover up story." He pulled the backpack over his shoulders and grabbed hold of his shotgun that he had left on the counter.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much." Samara heaved as her own heavy pack was now on her back. "The Greene's believed it and the majority of the group did also. If the redneck knows, he won't talk. He would have hinted at it already. But Dale…"

Shane nodded, knowing what the woman was implying. "Dale should really stop buttin' into other people's business."

Samara watched as the man opened the door to the shop with such force that it rattled the window panes. Picking up the grocery bags, Samara followed the deputy.

"Don't do anything stupid, Shane." She called out to him warningly. If he started a fight back at camp, words that should remain buried might fly.

Shane stopped in his march and turned around with an irritated frown. "I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't give that man ammunition to use against me."

His frown suddenly disappeared as a surprised look crossed over his face. Samara followed his line of sight which landed on what seemed a small bar/saloon.

With a smirk, Shane walked towards it. "Wonder if they got any drinks in there."

_That's the last thing we needed right now_, Samara thought with a twitch. But she followed nonetheless.

Before entering the saloon, she looked behind her to see if there was any sign of Glenn or the dog. She hadn't heard or seen any sign of them since they split up. She hoped they hadn't become walker bait. It would be a pity.

The saloon wasn't any more interesting than the town, just a dingy old place that had seen better days. Shane had managed to dig up a few bottles of alcohol from behind the counter and Samara had taken a bottle of vodka for herself.

"You smoke, right?" Shane suddenly asked breaking the silence that encompassed the bar for the past five minutes.

Samara whipped around and saw Shane at the bar with two packs of unopened cigarettes in his hand. Like a lion that just got a whiff of a tasty meal she circled around the table, her now uncovered eyes eyeing the packs with ferocious intensity. After getting a taste last night from Daryl's cigarette, her insides have been craving that cigarette to sooth all her troubles.

She stopped at the counter and extended her hand only to have Shane move them out of reach. There was no laughing jest in his action, his eyes were sober.

"I speak your language."

Samara blinked then slowly lowered her arm and placed it on the counter. Her eyes flattened in a perceptive light. "I see…What do you want for them?"

"You to back me up. I want Rick to stop lookin' for that girl. I know I can't convince him on my own, but maybe with some else—"

Samara interrupted him sharply. "Grimes won't listen to me either, you know he won't."

"Pressure from more than one person could make him concede."

"There are two of us and nine of them. It won't work."

Shane banged his open palm against the counter in frustration. How the hell did Rick manage to compromise with her? Was there a manual that Shane didn't know about—'99 Ways on How to Deal with Samara'? "Then whenever I need you too!"

"Fuck off." She scoffed. "I don't know what you will decide to raise a flag for. It could be something that goes against my very survival."

She turned away from the bar with the intention of leaving the abandoned place, cigarettes or no. She heard Shane curse before his heavy footsteps approached her and Samara felt her arm along with her whole body jerk back.

With startled eyes, Samara unholstered her gun.

Shane froze as the silenced muzzle was pressed against his forehead.

Time slowed to a stop.

Shane remained rooted in his spot as there was a woman seconds away from blowing his head off, and Samara because she was waiting for his next move that would either cost him his life or let him keep it.

"I thought I told you I don't respond well to threats."

Shane internally winced at the arctic tone, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. There was nothing in the woman's actions or voice to indicate that she was only posturing. She was dead serious.

Suddenly, a memory flashed before his eyes. He and Rick had been talking of the same woman during the week they had been driving around the Atlanta area. Shane had asked him out of curiosity for this female marshal and Rick had confessed that Samara had been one of the few people that actually _terrified_ him to the very core. Not because she had weighted his life so casually, but because she represented what people could become without human society.

To survive, she had opted to cross over that invisible threshold that had served for many centuries as a barrier between what was morally right and wrong.

Rick said that nowadays whenever he dealt with a situation that could tip the balance of his principles and lead him down a dark path, he thought of the marshal. She served as a warning of what would become of him if he crossed over that line.

And Shane could see it now. Until this moment, it had been just Rick's words. But now, Shane could see the black void that sucked out all the life from her eyes, where no mercy or sympathy existed.

"I didn't mean anythin' by it." Shane let go of her arm slowly as to not jostle her trigger hand.

"Samara look, if any issues that you and I both agree on appear, I just want you to speak up. Don't keep it to yourself." Shane said as he took a small step back. "Do you really believe that endangerin' all of us is for the greater good?"

For a moment Shane believed that his words wouldn't reach her, that the impenetrable fortress would never loosen its defenses. But it did. The void receded, replaced with the first spark of an emotion—sternness.

"Never do that again, Shane."

Samara left the bar without another word. She needed time to compose herself.

* * *

The squirrel sauntered on the low branch, bracing a nut in his little paws. A low crack had its ears perked up and its marble eyes searching the area with anxiousness. When the tiny woodland critter heard no other disturbance it went back to its meal.

The poor little bastard never got the chance to realize it was already dead.

_Twang._

Within a second, life fled the tiny animal as it fell off the branch onto the ground. The cause of its death had been a well embedded arrow into its head.

Daryl ripped the arrow away and added the critter to his string of squirrels. He had already caught two of them and was hoping to find more. Maybe if he was lucky, one for each in the camp.

He had found no trace of the girl and so had started hunting for squirrels. He needed something to keep his mind off the fact that he will be returning to the group for the third time without any results. It was getting harder to look Carol in the eye.

With a last knot, Daryl left his kills alone and reloaded his crossbow. For a moment, he forgot his earlier vow and looked behind him—

_Goddammit. _Daryl scowled at himself. He really needed to stop doing that.

The first time he did it was to observe the Indian's progress only to be reminded that she wasn't there with him. She was in town with Glenn and Shane. The second time had been done absent-mindedly; he was just overlooking a small valley when his brain had the subconscious idea to look for long hair and russet skin. He had given his head a good shake and blamed it on sunstroke. He then vowed never to do something so stupid.

It wasn't like he missed her. She was a bitch half the time and the other half she goaded him into arguments. But he did miss the presence of another human being there with him. After all these months around people, he had gotten used to there being someone with him at almost every interval of the day.

But then again, the solitary part of him was relieved of the reprieve. He was finally on his own since the virus ravaged the country. Just him in his natural surroundings.

He should take advantage of this opportunity to the fullest, Daryl thought. By tomorrow the woman would be back, prodding and snarking at him.

It still didn't stop him from getting the urge to look behind him.

* * *

Shane joined Samara outside ten minutes after she left. The tinted aviators were now back over her eyes and he couldn't see what she was thinking anymore. Neither talked. The only interaction they had was when Shane handed her the cigarette packs without a word.

They met up with Alistair and Glenn who appeared to be more on edge than ever. Neither Samara nor Shane gave it much thought since the young man was always nervous about one thing or another. The four of them searched the other shops for the next few hours. Whatever they found usable was loaded in the car, everything else was left where it was. They had come across only two walkers: one that had been locked in a basement, while the other in a room on an upper floor.

Canned food, cereal, bottles of water and juice, packets of junk food, some medicine, some clothes, bathroom necessities, tools and cigarettes. That was the sum of what had been looted from half of the stores. Shane had not brought the alcohol after Samara had remembered Maggie's stern objection to having alcohol on her father's land. He then pointed out that she kept the vodka bottle to which he then picked a five year old whisky for himself.

Five hours had passed since they arrived in town which meant that it was somewhere around 2:00 PM. Shane had called it a day and Glenn was all too eager to leave.

"You get everythin' from the pharmacy?" Shane asked Glenn as they were filling up the trunk of his car.

"Uh, not really. There are still some things I left." The majority of the medicine related to pregnancy. He didn't want to risk Shane or Samara snooping through the bag.

"Never mind, we'll get them tomorrow." Samara said as she arranged the backpacks and cases. She then turned on Glenn and caught one of the straps of his rucksack that he seemed to be clutching onto for dear life. "Hand it over."

"No!" Glenn's sudden start made Shane's brows go high and Samara pause in her tugging. Glenn took a deep breath and gave them a smile…Or at least tried to. "I-I mean, I'll hold onto it. You don't have to bother."

With a confused look, Samara let go of the strap. She closed the hatch of the filled up trunk and sidestepped the young man on her way to her seat.

Shane gave Glenn a strange look before walking along the car and stepping into the driver's seat. Glenn let out a heavy breath and climbed into the passenger seat with Alistair, ready to head back to camp.

* * *

Once back at the farmhouse, Shane spoke with Rick about sending another party out tomorrow to gather what else was left. Glenn had wandered off towards the tents and as for Alistair, Samara had to physically pick him up as today's activity made his limp worsen. The marshal let Shane and Rick deal with the supplies as she already scheduled to do other things, but not before being relieved of her weapons by Rick.

The woman left her backpack in her tent with the personal provisions she took for herself and picked up a small towel and Alistair. With the dog in tow and towel around her neck, Samara picked up a bucket she found around the camp and headed straight for the outside pump to apply cold water on the mutt's leg.

The marshal could swear she heard the dog sigh when the cool water hit his inflated muscles.

"That's it. You're not moving one inch tomorrow."

She kept his leg in the full bucket for ten minutes as Hershel had instructed her too. She then proceeded to dump half of the water onto the dog. Alistair yelped and tried to run only to have Samara tug him back by his tail.

"No you don't."

He stank, plain and simple. And she'd be damned if he slept in the area of her tent while he smelled like a week old dirty sock. While the water wouldn't do much without shampoo, it was better than nothing. With the towel, Samara dipped it in the half empty bucket and wiped the dog's fur. Since Samara wasn't throwing cold water on him anymore, Alistair calmed down and enjoyed the cooling bath.

Fifteen minutes later, Samara dumped the rest of the water in the ground and returned to camp with a wet dog and the bucket.

* * *

The marshal stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was turning her head form left to right, making mental notes on where she'll cut her hair. With a decisive nod, she brought the pair of scissors up to her silky tresses and proceeded to butcher them.

It took longer than she wanted, but Samara observed the result of her tampering and deemed it satisfactory. Now she wasn't a hairstylist, not by a long shot, but she was confident that her hair was now at an acceptable standard if not slightly tilted. Her hair wasn't changed that much, the ends being just a few inches above her shoulders.

Cleaning up the bathroom of her chopped tresses, she picked up the vodka bottle and M&amp;M bag she had left on a shelf and left the room and headed downstairs. She had one last thing she needed to do before heading outside.

Samara found Rick inside his son's sick room, in the chair by the bed. They were talking in hushed voices and when Samara tapped on the threshold they both regarded her in surprise, not exactly expecting her to visit.

"Hey, Samara." Carl's brows then scrunched as he looked at her closely. "Did you cut your hair?"

"Yes, I did. How're you feeling?"

"Better." He shifted and a flash of discomfort contorted his expression for a second.

"Hershel says it's gonna take another day before he can get out of bed." Rick explained as he adjusted his sheriff's hat atop Carl's head. His son gave a short chortle once Rick tipped the hat over his face in jest.

"Is there somethin' wrong?" Rick asked her when she just stood there, looking out of place.

With an uneasy shift of her feet, Samara stepped into the room and with a flick of her fingers, dropped the bag of M&amp;M's by Carl's side.

"Found these in town. I'm not one for chocolate so, I figured since you're a kid you'd like them."

"Wow. Thanks, Samara." His fingers clutched the bag and brought it to his eyes to inspect it. With a smile directed at the marshal, he placed the bag on the nightstand. "I'm gonna leave it for when we find Sophia. She always said she liked chocolate with peanuts."

"And I'm sure she'll appreciate it." Rick said with a smile. His son's happiness brought him happiness.

"Right." Samara said awkwardly, before straightening up. Her lips then quirked into a half smile. "There's another thing."

A cool, translucent bottle landed in Rick's lap. Surprised, the man picked it up and recognized the label as a brand of vodka. With an arched brow, his gaze shifted up to Samara.

"What's this for?"

"I believe I owed you one."

Rick gave her a strange look. He didn't remember asking her for alcohol. His brain worked as he tried to remember when vodka was ever involved in their conversations. There was one time in—

_Ah._

_Their bet._

Rick chuckled. After all this time she remembered something as minuscule as that. It hasn't even passed his mind since Atlanta. "So you did. I'm not really a drinker, though. So, I don't have anythin' to do with it."

"Make a bomb out of it."

He quietly laughed again. "How about I give it back to you and you use it for your explosives, and let's call the gesture as you holdin' up your end."

"Works for me." She took the offered bottle.

"You make bombs out of bottles?" At her nod, Carl's smile turned into a grin. "That's pretty cool. Could you show me sometime?"

Rick intervened before Samara could answer. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. You've only just started recoverin', we don't need you bein' put in the sick bed again."

Carl pouted and internally sighed as he was forbidden from yet another activity.

As her task was finished here, Samara turned towards the exit. Before she could leave the room, Rick spoke up. "Are you gonna head back to town tomorrow?"

Samara shook her head. "I'm going back in the forest. Send someone else."

At his nod, Samara left the room and Rick listened to her light steps before the door opened and closed with a squeak of rusty hinges. A small smile appeared on his lips and a light chuckle soon followed.

"It's nice to hear you laugh again." Carl said as he watched his father content for the first time in days. He had been either too stressed or worried over the group.

Rick's glimmering blue orbs settled on his son and a hand came up to flick his nose. "I guess it's the little things."

"Dad!"

* * *

Samara was reading the 'Count of Monte-Cristo' on top of the RV when she spotted Daryl coming out of the forest hours later. She had borrowed the book from Hershel since she had nothing better to do around the camp. She didn't know how to cook—unless you counted mac and cheese as dinner—and Samara downright refused to do everyone's dirty laundry, so she had opted to be the lookout. The book was not new to her, but it was a favorite and so she reveled in reacquainting herself with Dumas's words.

Bringing the pair of binoculars to her sunglasses and watched the hunter haul something behind him. Once he got closer, Samara whistled lowly as she realized what he was dragging.

"Dixon's back." She called to the others. "And it seems he caught a deer."

Glenn, Rick and Shane were the ones that helped Dixon carry the dead animal back to camp. As they passed the RV, Daryl's gaze slid up to her. Their eyes remained locked for a few heartbeats before the marshal did something unexpected. She nodded ever so slightly in greeting.

The unexpected gesture almost made Daryl pause in his step. _Almost._ Daryl returned the nod with some hesitation.

None of the others noticed their small gestures, but to both Samara and Daryl they spoke louder than any words. It was a sign that, _maybe,_ a possible bridge was built between them as the events of yesterday seemed to have calmed the waters between them. However long that would last was debatable.

With the efforts of the other three males, Daryl managed to tie the dead animal by the neck to a low thick branch on one of the trees a distance away from the camp. Carol had brought a large metal container courtesy of Patricia and placed it underneath the hanged deer, while Lori brought a bucket of water at Daryl's request.

The three men left once the deer was hung up and the hunter began his task of skinning the animal and carving up the meat. The group was all excited of the prospect of eating actual meat tonight.

Not even five minutes into the skinning process, Daryl caught sight of cherry-brown boots beside him. Very familiar boots.

"Where did you find it?"

Daryl caught a whiff of nicotine before weak white-grayish smoke reached his eyes. "North-east by the creek's bend."

"You dragged this dead weight for six kilometers?" She circled around the deer and prodded its hide.

"It's here, ain't it?" Several times in his trek back to the camp, the idea of leaving the deer behind flashed through his mind. The damn thing _was_ heavy and it was the middle of the day, but he persisted because then it would have been a waste of his time and skill.

"Need any help?"

Daryl's icy blue eyes finally regarded her. He hadn't noticed any changes about her once he set foot in camp, but now at a closer look her hair was shorter than he remembered. It didn't change her much, just showed her face more clearly. Before, her hair always got in the way and she was constantly fussing over it with a scowl.

There was a burning cigarette loosely held between her lips. He faintly wondered if she stole his last two cigarettes, but disregarded that notion since she probably thought that entering his tent would give her a disease.

"Do you even know what you're supposed to do?"

"Sort of."

Daryl heard the unsure tone and paused in his work. "If you're gonna fuck it up then—"

"I'm not going to fuck it up." She said firmly. "I just haven't skinned an animal in some time. I may be a bit rusty."

"Just how long?"

Samara was reluctant to answer which immediately told him that it had been a long time. "About seven years."

"Shit." With a last slash of his knife, Daryl ripped the skin clear off the deer's legs. "Never mind."

"Oh, come on." Samara took another hit from her cigarette, her tone failing at being beguiling. "I need the practice and it'll make your job easier. Two pairs of hands are better than one." She paused and then waved her injured hand ironically. "Well, one and a half."

While that did tempt him, his eyes drifted to the others and whatever light mood he was in, plummeted suddenly. Daryl only now noticed that he was being watched. Andrea's binoculars kept drifting to his spot from atop the RV (she had replaced Samara in her watch once she got off the vehicle), Dale was giving them looks from underneath the hood of the RV, Carol and Lori watched them quite obviously from their place at the picnic table and even Shane was watching their interaction from underneath his cap.

_Shit._

Up until now, the others hadn't witnessed much of his and Samara's interactions. They only knew that the two were at odds since they held each other at gun point, but over the past few days that loathing settled into irritation. At least for Daryl. They poked each other with sharp sticks, but nothing violent like at the highway erupted between the two of them.

But _they_ didn't know that. The others probably feared that another showdown would happen just by them being near one another.

All this attention cast on him and the unsuspecting marshal made him very uncomfortable. Heat rose up his neck and warmed his face. He was not here for these people's entertainment!

So his response was one born out of his well nurtured defense mechanism.

"I don't need your damn help!" Daryl barked at the marshal. "You wanna practice, catch your own damn deer!"

Daryl practically felt the temperature around them drop a few degrees. He did not raise his eyes from his work; he did not need to see the cold ire in her eyes to know she was very displeased.

The woman threw her cigarette away as she took a peek behind her and noticed the same sight Daryl saw before lashing out.

"Heh."

Daryl was startled when instead of the verbal abuse that he had expected from her, he got a cold laugh. There was a razor-sharp smirk settled over her lips and he almost snapped again once he saw the disappointed look she was giving him.

The woman tilted her chin up haughtily and her green irises darkened with the most disdainful look he had ever seen. Placing her sunglasses back over her eyes she turned on her heel and left him alone with his catch.

Daryl stood there frozen still. He felt in the pit of his stomach something exponential shift between the two of them. They had ripped themselves a new one before, but this time seemed different. Whatever mediocre progress they had made had been snuffed out like a candle in a storm by his words. He just knew that the woman's mild behavior until now had all but evaporated and by the look she gave him, he knew she would recede to uncooperative mode and make his life a living hell.

He looked over his shoulder and watched the Indian climb back on top of the RV and settle cross-legged on the other end of the vehicle, away from Andrea. Opening her book, she continued reading, looking the picture of indifference.

With a harsher tug of deer skin, Daryl went back to his work while cursing the woman for leaving him with an unconformable tug in his stomach.

* * *

While on the outside Samara appeared calm and collected—her usual self—on the inside she was seething.

_Stupid fucking redneck!_

She had gone out of her way to help him. Actually _help_ him. And he spits it right back into her face just because the rest of his people were gawking at them like a Saturday night TV show. She had just wanted to return the favor he had given her yesterday with the leaves, although half of her reason for wanting to assist him was to get herself reacquainted with skinning and carving up a deer, she still had genuinely wanted to help him.

_Gods, what a piece of work._

It didn't matter anymore. As far as she was concerned, they were back to square one. If he wanted to act like a fool guided by others perception of him, then he could remain one.

_Fucking trailer-trash hick_, she thought disdainfully. They were all the same in the end.

That was the last time she ever offered him any sort of aid.

* * *

**Foot Note:** Is Samara a Mary Sue? I don't really know how that concept goes; all I know is that they are loved by all and overpowered. It's not in this case, I'm very aware of that. I didn't conjure Samara up with the intent for her to be Mother Teresa. But MS's happen when a female has a lot of skills at hand. Samara is rather handy, but I hope not Mary Sue-ish handy.

What do you think of Samara? As a character, her personality and her views of the world and such? I would very much like to know how you see her. Is she believable?


	9. Truth Hurts and So Do Fists

**Note: **I think you're going to like this chapter. I know I did. Also, thank you all for the favorites and follows!

**NRIASB – **Don't worry, you haven't offended me. That's the kind of criticism I need and I thank you for it. I have always feared that I'd make Samara a tad too grizzly and indifferent to everyone around her, but a zombie apocalypse where you know that the only person you loved in the world is dead and you've been alone with barely any human contact for months can do that to a person. Is it really that unbelievable that a person, a _woman_, can change so much for their survival? Just look at Michonne. And as I said, Samara is a pragmatist, quite selfish and clearly a pessimist—she can't see the light at the end of the tunnel these days. Robotic? No, she still has feelings (otherwise she wouldn't get irritated or angry), but they are buried deep down and is reluctant to show them. She can't just jump on the Atlanta merry band and hold hands with them. Hopefully, she'll lighten up along the way.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

After yesterday's incident with the deer, Samara hadn't spoken a word to him. She barely even looked at him or acknowledged his presence. It was like he never existed to begin with and it was starting to grate on his nerves. She hadn't even eaten the deer meat, saying that she didn't have a taste for something touched by _him_.

He shouldn't care. Wasn't this what he had wanted from the beginning? For the woman to leave him alone. And now that she finally did, it didn't feel right. Like a clock's mechanism malfunctioning once one of its parts stopped working.

He was supposed to go searching for Sophia with her again and he was mentally dreading it. After speaking with Rick about the area he and the Indian would search, he went looking for her. He had been searching for a good ten minutes with no sight of her and he was almost at the end of his fuse. Daryl had seen her before speaking with Rick, walking around the camp with the dog in her grasp, probably looking for some poor sap to pawn the dog of too.

Daryl was heading towards the RV, hoping she was inside, when two voices stopped him in his tracks. The woman he had been looking for was talking to Carol just on the other side of the RV. He had a mind to go over there and yell at her for wasting so much time, but Carol's words stopped him.

"Samara, thank you for looking for Sophia. I know this isn't what you planned on doing, but thank you, nonetheless."

A few seconds passed before the Indian answered.

"You're right; this isn't what I wanted to do with my time. But I'm staying, so I guess I should make do." Daryl heard some rustling and he realized that she was loading her guns. The woman's next question came out hesitatingly. "Carol, do _you_ still think she's alive?"

"I—I don't know. I want to believe my Sophia is still alive, but it's been a week…" Carol's voice dimmed down at the end before fully stopping.

There were a few moments of silence in which Daryl should have revealed himself, anything to stop Carol from speaking again. He didn't want to hear that she was starting to lose hope; that his time and effort was all in vain. But he didn't move; he remained rooted in place like a frightened rabbit.

—Call it morbid curiosity.

"How did your husband die?" Carol asked suddenly; a meek, soft tone coloring her voice.

Daryl could imagine the marshal's back stiffening and lips pursing in displeasure. She was never one for deep conversations, especially not about herself or her past.

A part of him—a small part—was also interested in the woman's answer. If she answered.

"Bombed in New York. I wasn't there. "

That he did not expect. Out of the many alternatives he came up with, Daryl always thought that she must have seen him die which probably caused her to emotionally shut down and turn into a survivalist with a one track mind.

Daryl had to strain his ears to hear Carol's next words. "How…How did you find the strength to move on?"

"I…stopped thinking about it and concentrated on myself." For the first time, Daryl heard melancholy mixed up in her voice.

"Just like that?"

"It's better when you don't dwell on the past. It can get you killed."

A beat.

"Yet you still wear the ring."

This time there was a longer pause and Samara's voice went back to its usual cynicism. "Some habits die hard."

The women's conversation stopped suddenly when Daryl came from behind the side of the RV. Carol seemed startled but she didn't suspect anything amiss, and as for Samara…her eyes narrowed into slits. Green eyes watched from underneath dark lashes for any sign that he had listened into their tête-à-tête. Unlucky for her, Daryl was also very adept at masking his expressions and there was nothing for her to see.

"How much longer are you gonna take, Indian? We should have been halfway in the forest by now." He spat and stepped past her, noticing Alistair at Carol's feet. It seems the woman had found her fool. "Making me look all over the farm like a damn dog…"

Samara said nothing as she followed him into the woods, but he sure as hell felt her eyes scorching the back of his head.

* * *

They had been walking for the better part of three hours, not once uttering a word. The tension between them needed a chainsaw to cut through. While it did make him uncomfortable, Daryl didn't have the patience or the time to deal with her sulking behavior. He was here to search for the girl not to have a heart to heart.

The woman had spent her time hunting whatever squirrels or birds she saw with her muffled handgun. Her first couple of tries had been so bad that it made Daryl cringe. Just when she was about to pull the trigger on the unsuspecting critter, she would step on a branch or on crunchy leaves and scare the animal away. It was like clockwork. After the fourth try she gave up, making her foul mood even fouler.

A low rumble in the distance made them pause. Both looked towards the darkening clouds that loomed over them ominously. The weather had shifted so suddenly from blue skies to grey that it caught them by surprise. They were not prepared for rain, they had no equipment for it.

"Storm's coming." And by the looks of it a heavy one. "We should go back."

Those were the first words she uttered to him in the course of more than twelve hours, but Daryl gave it no thought. He was also preoccupied with the upcoming storm.

"No. We keep walkin'." He shook his head before sneering at her. "What? You afraid of a bit of rain, Indian?"

No reaction. Not even a spark of irritation.

Daryl's brows furrowed. He spat on the ground, annoyed, and resumed his walk. The woman followed, although it seemed more reluctant than anything.

* * *

Really…They had it coming.

Daryl and Samara were right in the middle of a raging storm, running blindly through a muddied, slippery forest. They should have headed back when Samara had said it, the storm being that heavy. It was one of those summer ones that were so thick you could barely see a meter in front of you and it didn't help that the drops were as cold as ice and both were wearing light clothing.

"Goddammit!" Daryl heard the marshal shout behind him. "Dixon, we need to find shelter!"

"I know!" He yelled back, aware of their situation. The last thing they need right now was to catch hypothermia in the middle of summer.

He had no idea where they were, that was the awful truth. In the storm, Daryl had lost all sense of direction. They could be anywhere.

Daryl stopped and looked around him. Trees were everywhere and he had no landmark to guide himself by.

Samara stopped next to him and she was breathing heavily. They had been running for the better part of an hour and the cold was affecting her injured hand most painfully.

"Which way?"

Daryl shook his head, a rare lost look in his eyes.

"Fuck!" Samara cursed and wiped her face of the water dripping on it, but it wasn't like it mattered. It got drenched right back within a few seconds.

With a blind pick, he motioned to his left. "That way!"

Fifteen minutes later they fortunately reached the creek edge. Now at least they had something to go by, Daryl thought in relief. They just had to follow it upwards a mile and from there they could reach the abandoned farmhouse where Sophia had taken shelter.

Running along the edge of the creek valley, Daryl's foot slipped for a second before he righted himself. Because of the rain, the earth was loosened and thus created muddied landslides. Below them, the valley walls were made of stone and there was barely anything to latch onto in case one of them fell. There were a few thin trees that had grown from underneath the wall and were hanging limply.

"The earth's loose! Watch your step!" He shouted behind him.

"What?!" She shouted back, not hearing him over the inflated, furious stream beneath them and the noisy rain.

"I said watch your—"

He never got the chance to finish that sentence.

With horror flashing over his face, Daryl felt the earth underneath him give away and felt himself fall. In his panic, his fingers let go of the crossbow as his body hit the ground and slid down the valley. Fingers dug into stone, desperately hoping to latch onto a groove but his hands were caked in mud which made them slippery. His descend was stopped short once he grabbed hold onto a tree protruding from the stone wall.

Looking down he was struck with alarm when he saw the ten meter drop with tumultuous water and hard rock awaiting him.

Samara reached the edge and saw the hunter holding on for dear life onto a thin tree barely able to support his weight.

"Fuck." Daryl spat and then looked up at her. "Help me up!"

"How?!" Even if she laid belly down and outstretched her arm, it wouldn't reach him. And she wasn't about to risk stepping one foot near the edge where the earth could give away.

"I don't know, just do it!" His voice raised a note once he heard the tree groan.

Samara stood frozen in her spot and Daryl saw her crouch low and watch him calmly, no longer seeming deterred by the rain. The hunter swore he saw her eyes gleam maliciously.

"You want me to help you, do you? But I thought you didn't need _my_ help." Her head cocked to the side and a sneer molded her lips. "We wouldn't want your image to be tarnished now would we?"

She couldn't possibly be doing this right now, Daryl thought with wide eyes. Here he was dangling ten feet to his possible death and she was spouting to him about their little quarrel like it actually mattered right now.

But instead of an angry retort at her cruelty, he spoke surprisingly composed. "If you'd been in my place, would you have wanted my help?"

While he hadn't wanted unnecessary attention on him, the woman wouldn't have wanted _anyone_ to think of her as weak or not capable of doing a task. Everyone cared about what the people they were familiar with thought of them, no exceptions. The woman could deny it all she wanted, but she was in the same boat as all of them. She was not above such matters.

The sneer slipped off her face and all that remained was a pensive look.

"You'd do the same, you hypocrite!"

Daryl watched her unmoving form and felt his fate sealed once she got up and disappeared from his vision.

She left him…She fucking left him here to die.

With a hardening of his eyes, he started looking for indents in the stone to use in climbing back up. If she wasn't going to help him, he was going to help himself. Just like always. He was a fool to think she would lift a finger for him.

"Take my hand!"

Daryl looked up in surprise to see the marshal's upper half leaning over the edge with her injured hand outstretched to him while the other was gripping the edge with white knuckles.

"Don't just hang there, gawking! Reach up, you idiot!"

Not needing another stimulate, he reached out and gripped her hand firmly. He did it just in time as the tree broke in half and all of Daryl's weight was now supported by the marshal.

"Shit!" He could see her teeth grind in pain. "Climb fast! I don't know how long I can hold you!"

Daryl wasted no time and inch by inch started to climb her arm, using his feet against the stone to push himself up. Samara cursed along the way as Daryl wrapped his arm around her torso—the marshal felt like she was being ripped in half, both ends being tugged viciously. The hunter placed his left leg in an indent in the wall and with his free hand he grabbed one of her jean's belt loops. Taking in a deep breath, he used his leg to propel himself upwards to the valley border and with his free hand dug his fingers into the mud to grab the edge.

His breaths at this point were visible and he could barely feel his fingers, the cold ground not helping his situation. With a growl his other hand disentangled from the belt loop and grabbed Samara's thigh. The hunter could have sworn he heard the woman yell indignantly, something about his hand's location. It was rather close to other more private areas of her body, but right now he didn't care. He just wanted to be out of danger. With a heave, he used her thigh and the edge to pull himself up and once his upper body was on horizontal ground, Daryl moved the hand from her thigh to her calf and dragged himself one last time.

Daryl plopped on the earth exhausted. He was now fully on safe ground, cheek pressed against the mud and he breathed heavily, for once relieved that the rain was icy since it cooled his heated body. His heart was thumping faster than a race horse, the adrenaline still running strong in his system.

Daryl was brought out of his stupor when something collided with his head. Shifting his head to his left he came face to face with a pair of cowboy boots.

_Oh right…_

He forgot about her.

One of her legs was moving frantically trying to hit him while the other, he observed, was tied at the ankle with a belt, and the belt was tied to her torso holsters, and the holsters were tied to her rifle and his crossbow. Both weapons were wedged in a boulder formation, used as a break. She had created a makeshift hook and rope out of what she had and he could see that the belt around her ankle was halfway split and still tearing.

Bringing himself to his knees rapidly, he caught her by the ankles and with what little strength he still had in his body he pulled. Daryl watched as more of Samara appeared from over the edge before all of her was now on even ground with him. The hunter didn't stop there and dragged himself backwards with her along, taking them as far away from the edge as possible.

Exhausted, Daryl fell right back on the ground, parallel with the marshal. From the corner of his eye, he could see the woman breath just as heavily as he.

Here they were bruised and tired in the bitter storm, just having avoided a possible death.

With a grunt, Daryl pushed himself to his feet. They needed to keep moving. Daryl walked over to the boulders and disentangled his crossbow and her rifle from the holsters. Turning around he was about to untie her ankle, but the marshal was already on it, throwing away the ruined belt.

Daryl gave her back the holsters along with the rifle. Samara took them and tied the harness back to her body with shaky fingers before throwing the rifle over her shoulder.

The marshal took his offered hand and Daryl pulled her up to her feet.

"Come on. We need to keep movin'." His voice came out softer than he wanted, but the exhaustion combined with his near death experienced had mellowed him down somewhat.

She nodded and followed him away from the edge of the creek valley.

* * *

It took them about twenty minutes to reach the farmhouse, but once inside, they both fell to the floor breathing heavily and shaking from head to toe.

Daryl was very aware that they were suffering from mild hypothermia. They needed to get themselves out of their wet clothing and somewhere warm. Hauling himself to his feet, Daryl told Samara to check the ground floor for any walkers while he went searching for blankets or any kind of material they could use to wrap themselves around. On the second floor, Daryl ripped the sheets from the beds and found some winter blankets in the closet. There was some spare clothing he found in the master bedroom's dresser.

Descending the stairs, he found the woman in the living room kindling a small fire with her lighter. There were pieces of furniture along with several bits of carton in the fireplace. He had though he heard something breaking while on his search. Once the flames grew, she added carton from what seemed like cereal and rice boxes.

"Found these in the pantry." She lit the edges of a carton with her lighter before throwing it in the fire.

Daryl dropped the clothes, blankets and sheets on the dilapidated couch parallel the hearth. "Take your half."

Samara nodded and plucked the rifle off from around her shoulders and untied the holsters from her torso, before picking up the pink pajama set along with a sheet and a blanket. She motioned to Daryl to turn around so she could undress.

"Don't even think of looking."

"Who would?" He grumbled under his breath, but he felt the tips of his ears burn.

Daryl picked up his share of clothing and the sheet and left the room since he felt uncomfortable undressing with another person around. He had his reasons for not wanting anyone to see his body.

It took several minutes for him to dry himself off (thankfully the rain cleaned them both somewhat of the mud covering their skin) with the sheet and dress in his new clothes. They were two sizes too small, his grey sweatpants barely reaching his ankles and his pale blue long sleeve shirt felt tight around his chest and arms, but he couldn't complain.

Arriving back in the living room, Daryl almost smirked. The Native was swimming in the pj's—whoever the owner had been, had been a hefty woman.

With a scowl the woman threw the blanket over her head and shoulders and cocooned herself in it near the fireplace. Daryl settled his wet clothes beside hers near the fireplace and picked up the last blanket, covered himself tightly and sat on the floor a distance from her. The heath from the fire felt good to his chilled skin and Daryl closed his eyes in content.

They remained in silence while the storm raged outside, lightning illuminating the room every few minutes and thunder resonating off the windows and walls. It took about ten minutes for both of their shivering to subside and their breathing to return to normal instead of wheezing.

"This is all your fault."

Daryl turned to the woman with incredulous eyes. "My fault?"

"You're the one that wanted to keep searching for that girl." Throwing the blanket off her, she rose to her feet and paced behind him. Her eyes were narrowed to slits and she practically spat at him like a wildcat. "You knew a storm was coming and you didn't give a shit! We should have gone back to camp, but no! You didn't even want to hear it!"

This was the first time the woman had raised her voice. All this time, whenever she was angry she lowered her voice to a hiss or she just stewed in it.

"Let me tell you something, you stupid redneck. That girl is dead. _Dead_!"

Daryl stood there frozen. Her words hitting his heart like a hammer.

"We're chasing after a fucking ghost! You and Grimes are living in a fantasy! You're just giving that woman false hope and you can't even see how it's slowly killing her!"

"Shut up…" He rose to his feet, his voice low with barely constrained fury.

"No, you will listen!" She stomped her bare foot on the floor. "You think I don't see the way that woman hunches over herself? How she's getting lifeless by each day?" She closed up on him and Daryl could practically see hellfire in her olive greens. "And you want to prolong _that_?"

"Tch." She spat on the floor next to him in disgust. "And you think _I'm_ the cold-blooded one."

"I almost fell down the ridge! You almost fell ten meters into the creek! And still you persist!" She grabbed a hold of his arm to stop him from leaving the room. "It's been a _week_! There must be some part of you that knows she's dead. Please, for all our sakes, listen to it and put a stop to this charade!"

"Shut up! Goddamn, just shut up!" He pushed her arm off violently and Samara took several steps back in defense. "You're always talkin'! The only thing I hear from you is your cynical bullshit!"

His expression was one of pure, unadulterated fury with a spark of desperation hidden behind his blues. "We're gonna find that girl! I once got lost in the forest for ten days when I was a kid. If I survived, she can too."

"That girl hasn't grown up in the forest like you, you backwood hick!" Samara shoved him, ignoring the dangerous gleam in his eyes. "She's a twelve year old girl that's no braver than a mouse! She has no survival skills or even a weapon! How the fuck can you possibly think she's still alive?" Another shove. "She probably got bit the moment—"

Daryl grabbed her hands when they came up again and he backed her up into the wall behind her. He slammed the marshal against it so unsympathetically that her breath escaped her.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" His voice was set in a low hiss, his eyes the only indicator that he was fuming. His blues seemed to have taken an electrifying color. "'You should cut your losses and move on'. Who the hell do you think you are sayin' shit like that to Carol?"

Her eyes narrowed once she realized that he had indeed heard their conversation. "Someone who doesn't want to die looking for a dead girl."

Daryl remained silent for several seconds before his next words cut her straight to the core.

"Is that how you dealt with your husband? You just wrote him off as dead without even bein' sure?"

Her eyes widened to the point that the white of her eyes showed. "…What?"

Daryl would never admit it out loud but he took a perverse sense of satisfaction to see her wordless and without a biting retort for once. She looked like a cornered animal and Daryl was nothing but a predator.

"Glenn and T-Dog were in Atlanta when it got bombed—they lived through it and got out alive. I went back to the city to look for my brother not knowin' if he was alive or dead. Hell, Grimes crossed several states for his family and he had no idea where they were or if they were even alive. But you…" He shook his head driving the last nail into the coffin. "I guess even loved ones don't count much into what's important to _your_ survival, you self-centered cunt."

Daryl let go off her hands and left her slumped against the wall, wide eyed. He could practically see the horror, anguish and shame rolling out of them in waves.

Without another look, Daryl turned his back on her wanting nothing but to be away from her poisonous presence. Later, he made a mental note to never turn his back on her, not after she was emotionally ripped apart.

When Daryl felt a hand on his upper arm yanking him back, he didn't expect such an explosive response.

_Crunch._

Daryl's hands flew to his face and he swore that the Native bitch broke his nose. _Fuck!_

"You leave my husband out of this!" She screeched piercingly as rage and misery cracked her voice. "You have no right to speak of him! You don't know me or my reasons!"

Daryl tried to catch one of her fists and he succeeded only to get the privilege of a kick in the shin. With a pained grunt, he immediately let go of her and backed away.

"You judge me, you fucking bastard?!" She picked up one of the pieces of the chair she'd broken to feed the fire and threw it at him. They were now in the hall of the house, with Samara backing him into the kitchen that was opposite the living room. "If your brother is as alive as you think he is, why didn't you go after him? Why didn't you pack your shit and search for him instead of remaining with the group?!"

"Dammit, stop!" He yelled as the last chair leg flew at him, hitting the cupboard behind him. Daryl never thought in his life that a person could look menacing while dressed in pink. If his brother had been in his place, he would have punched the marshal the moment she swung at him, but Daryl wasn't and he wasn't about to delve into that sort of degenerate behavior.

"You call me a hypocrite?! You're no better!"

Reaching his quota of shit he could stand in one day, Daryl snapped and rushed the woman. Not expecting the sudden move, Samara didn't have the chance to get out of his way when he grabbed her around the waist and body-slammed her into the kitchen table—his move similar to a pro-football player slamming his rival out of the ball-player's way. He had just wanted to immobilize her, he didn't expect for the force to break the legs of the table and cause them both to crash to the floor. The months old dust lifted from the movement and covered them in thick grime.

Both Daryl and Samara were left coughing and Samara in pain as she cushioned Daryl's fall and sustained yet another injury to her almost healthy back. A stray thought told her that this most likely set her recovery back for another week.

That put an end to their tussle. Or at least that's what Daryl would have liked.

Her forehead collided with his cheek. At the last second he moved his face to the side knowing that she was aiming for his bloodied nose. The next few minutes were spent wrestling and rolling around in the kitchen as Daryl tried to pin the Native's arms and legs down while Samara kept punching, scratching and kicking at any part of his body she could reach.

He managed to secure her wrists above her head and he had to nudge her knees apart and settle his body between them to secure the safety of his groin that she had been repeatedly aiming at.

"Stop already!" Daryl breathed out in exasperation as Samara kept writhing in attempt to escape. "Dammit, you crazy squaw, stop!"

"Fuc—!"

To Samara's indignity, a hand covered her mouth and chocked whatever curses would have come out.

Lightning illuminated the house and Samara detected with wide eyes two human shapes in the hallway behind Daryl.

_You've got to be fucking kidding me!_

She started struggling harder, no longer angry but terrified. There were two walkers not two meters from them and approaching. The hunter couldn't hear them over the storm raging outside and their loud breaths so he took her struggling as just her being stubborn.

"I'm not lettin' you go until you calm the hell down."

They were getting closer, so Samara did the only thing that would ensure he would let go of her, something that will haunt her for many days to come.

With an arch of her back, she pressed her breasts against his chest, making him feel the hardness of her nipples and then, to his utter horror, Daryl felt her lower half rise and her pelvis connect with his groin and _grind_. Daryl let go of her arms in shock and lifted his body from hers as far as possible.

He didn't expect to be thrown to the side and then for her to roll away to the other. It was then that he became aware of the reason for her sudden change in behavior—a walker fell on the floor right where they had been. His brain and body going into hyperdrive, he scrambled to his feet and backed away from the walker still standing. Samara was also on her feet, with the table leg she had thrown at him in hand.

The two walkers attention was on the closest person to them which was Samara. She had to climb on the kitchen counter to avoid the downed undead's fingers clawing at her feet. Swinging the wooden leg, she hit the other walker in the head, but it barely fazed him.

Daryl picked up one of the pans from the sink and jumped over the legs of the downed walker. He was now behind both of the walking corpses and swung the pan at the one standing. The force of the blow crashed the walker into the cupboards and he brought the pan right over its head, cracking the skull open and splattering blood over the kitchen floor.

Samara, on top of the counter, speared the chair leg right into the crawling walker's eye. The monster's head slumped to the floor, viscous blood pooling underneath it.

Daryl and Samara were left breathing heavily. The storm, the fight, the walkers coming out of nowhere had left them both emotionally and physically drained.

Pale blue crashed against olive green and both came to an understanding. For now, their argument was put off. They needed to search for any other intruders in the house.

Rushing into the living room they picked up their crossbow and guns and began searching for the place where the two walkers came inside the house. With a curse, Daryl saw the back door of the house banging against the threshold from the force of the wind outside. He stepped on the threshold and overlooked the area in front of him. Because of the wind and the thick rain he couldn't tell if there were other walkers in the area, so he swiftly stepped back inside and closed the door properly.

Turning on the woman, he observed the pained look on her face. "Didn't I tell you to check the house?"

"I did." She shifted uneasily on her feet. "But…I may have forgotten about that door."

"You…forgot." His brows rose in incredulity and his grip on the crossbow tightened until his fingers paled.

Samara spat a low curse and ran a hand through her damp hair. "Look, I was cold and wet. I just wanted to get somewhere warm! I wasn't thinking straight—"

"Damn right you weren't!" His eyes narrowed to slits. "I could've been bit!"

Her eyes mirrored his. "Well, you weren't. You should thank my redskin ass for that."

He scoffed and pushed past her. "You were savin' yourself. Don't try to sell me your horseshit."

His feet stopped short when he heard a gun cocking.

"You should have never taken your eyes off of me."

What was that he said about _not_ turning his back on her? Daryl closed his eyes in disbelief and slowly turned back towards the woman, observing her with frosty eyes. It seems whatever truce they had on had become null and void.

"Is that what you told Otis before killin' him?"

Her hand faltered. That was all the time he needed to wretch the gun out of her hand and toss her against the wall. He threw the gun behind him and leveled his crossbow to her head while Samara backed away and took out one of her other handguns.

Déjà vu all over again. It seemed that no matter what they did, they both ended up in the same position—pointing weapons at each other.

"What are you talking about?" Samara said lowly.

One of Daryl's brows rose in skepticism. "You think I'm stupid enough to believe that joke of a story?"

A somber look settled over her face. "And you think I killed him?"

"You. Shane. Both of you. Doesn't matter." His finger moved on the trigger, making the marshal mimic his movement in apprehension. "You both are fuckin' crazy either way."

"I didn't shoot him." Samara's brow furrowed in sincerity. While she may not have a problem shooting people, she had never hurt anyone who hadn't had it coming. Except of course for that boy before Wiltshire—that had been an unfortunate accident.

_Shane then_, Daryl confirmed his suspicions. He hadn't thought that the Native did it. Shane had been far too jumpy that day, his guilt almost palpable and the woman kept watching him far too closely. Almost defensively.

"And what does it matter, either way?" She mumbled as her gun lowered. Whatever fight she had left had suddenly drained completely from her. She was too tired to argue anymore.

Daryl's crossbow didn't lower. He didn't trust her not to change her mind and raise that gun when his defenses were down.

"Or do you want to announce to the others about Shane's little indiscretion?"

Daryl watched her steadily before he lowered his weapon. No, he had no intention. He knew what would happen if he did, and they still had to look for the girl.

Samara sidestepped him, picked up her discarded gun and headed for the kitchen. A minute later, she came back out of the kitchen dragging a walker along. His eyes followed her all the way to the back door and out. She had the right idea, they couldn't leave the corpses in there; they would just stink up the place. With a grunt, Daryl shouldered his crossbow and dragged the other body out. Outside he was greeted with biting cold and freezing rain drops. Rapidly pushing the walker down the porch steps, he ran inside.

Rubbing his arms he checked the front door before ascending the stairs and headed for the bathroom so he could clean his bloodied nose. In all this commotion he had forgotten that the marshal probably broke it. His fingers prodded his nose and hissed once the pain throbbed.

_Christ, the woman had a mean hook._

In the bathroom mirror he studied his nose—it wasn't broken for one, just badly banged up. There was a cut in the middle of his nose and blood was still running down his nostrils, but now instead of cascading as it did before it just trickled. Daryl managed to find a few paper towels to wipe his face clean.

With a deep inhale, he plopped on the closed toilet. He could feel heat traveling up his throat and up his cheeks and he was pretty sure that if he looked into the mirror, he would see a tomato instead of his face. Running a hand over his warm cheeks, he tried to discontinue his thoughts from returning to that moment when the Indian had pressed up against him. He knew she had done it to get him off her, but it still didn't stop his body from reacting _again_. He just about put behind that incident at the creek and now his deprived mind jumped right back into it. The scenarios his mind conjured up about him and _her_ almost made him want to retch.

He didn't even like the woman…

Abruptly, his thoughts sobered and turned towards a darker path. What she had said about his brother…Daryl ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He _hadn't_ abandoned Merle, he had looked for him. But he couldn't do it forever; he had no idea where to even begin. Merle had left him with no sign as to where he was going. He hadn't even waited.

What else was he supposed to do? He couldn't sit around Atlanta forever waiting for his brother to show up. He had to look after himself. Merle would be fine, Daryl knew at least that much. If there was anyone who could survive a grievous wound as that it was him.

—But there was that slitter of doubt that tugged at his heart and poisoned him with guilt.

Daryl remained in the bathroom until the bleeding stopped and his bruised ego healed before venturing out again.

Going back into the living area, he spotted Samara on her back on the sofa, wrapped in her blanket. Discomfort morphed her expression and Daryl remembered—with a speck of remorse—that he had slammed her back against the table. His guilt soon disappeared since she had inflicted more pain on him than he did her.

Their antagonism hadn't faded, not by a long shot. It was still there between them like a putrid skunk. The only difference was that their bodies were too exhausted to fight.

Daryl sat in front of the fireplace as far away from the woman as possible. They were in for a few tense hours.

* * *

The rain subsided two hours later and Daryl and Samara changed back into their now dry clothes and left the house for good. Not once had they talked. Their communication was cut short to hand signs and body language, both fearing that if they spoke again another fight would ensue.

Another two hours had been wasted to reach the farm and by then they were cold and miserable again. Even the blue sky and bright sun didn't lighten their disposition; it actually seemed to darken it.

Most of the people were out in the camp, at their posts or doing their respective tasks. Dale was the lookout atop the RV as per usual and once he spotted the two trackers exit the forest, he called out to the others.

Rick was the first that reached them.

"Finally, where were you two? We almost sent out a search par—" Rick's words died in his mouth. Both Samara and Daryl looked like they just went through war. Splotches of mud all over, boots caked in earth and plants, pale skin. It shouldn't surprise him, they had been in the forest in the middle of a storm, but—

Daryl had crusted blood on his nose and smudged on his nostrils. Samara was walking far too stiffly and she winced every time she took a step.

"Christ, what happened?"

"We fell down some stairs." Samara said without a hint of amusement. By now Shane had joined Rick and was watching the tousled duo with raised brows.

"And Dixon hit every stair on the way down?" Shane's unconvinced eyes slid to Daryl. It looked more like _someone_ socked the hillbilly good.

Samara closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. "Just leave it."

She broke off from them and headed towards the house, Rick right on her trail. Daryl didn't hear what they were speaking, but judging from the way Samara tried to outrun Grimes' pace she wasn't thrilled.

Andrea, T-Dog and Carol finally reached them and Carol was the first—and only—to rush towards Daryl at the sight of his cut up nose.

"What happened?" Andrea asked the hunter as she eyed his disheveled state.

"Storm did. We took shelter in a house. Walkers were inside." He vaguely explained while trying to stave off Carol's worried fussing.

"And one of them punched you?" T-Dog looked at him skeptically.

"More like a certain marshal did." Shane smirked in amusement. He had been on the end of the woman's wrath, but she had never actually inflicted any physical pain on him. While the memory of her holding him at gunpoint hadn't subsided, he could not deny that she was something else entirely.

Daryl scowled at him before pushing away Carol's hands that tried to wipe the crusted blood of his nose. Now, as the memory of what happened inside the house was brought back to the forefront of his mind, he wasn't in the mood for company. He marched away from the others, cursing the Indian inside his head to hell and back.

* * *

"Samara, what the hell happened between you and Daryl?" Rick kept repeating the question as they ascended the stairs towards the Greene's bathroom.

"Nothing." She growled between clenched teeth. The sheriff needed to change his tune already.

"It's not nothin'." He frowned. "I told you if you wanted to live among us there were some rules you have to follow, no exceptions. One of them was: Don't start up a fight."

She whipped around so fast, Rick thought she would fall off the stairs. "It isn't my fault! Go badger the redneck."

The sheriff gave her a doubtful stare. "I have a hard time believin' that Daryl would instigate a fight with you."

"Gods, I shoot a few people and I'm the bad guy in everything!" She grumbled under her breath as she stomped towards the bathroom.

The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose when the door was loudly slammed shut.

"Rick?"

The man in question looked behind and saw his wife at the doorstep of his son's room watching him with a troubled look.

"It's fine. Go back inside." He said quietly as his eyes averted from hers. He didn't see the disappointed look that pained her entire face.

An hour had passed and he still couldn't look her in the eye. Not after what she told him.

Rick's eyes hardened as he observed the closed bathroom door and marched right up to it. He turned the knob, not even caring what the woman was doing inside, and barged in.

Samara was hunched over the sink with white knuckles gripping the edge. Her rifle was on the closed lit of the toilet along with her holsters and guns. Her eyes popped open to watch the sheriff swiftly close the door behind him and place the lock on it.

"You know, I could've been taking a shit." She hadn't moved from her position, only her narrowed eyes following.

The man ignored her sarcasm and stopped beside her and made sure she had no way of slipping away to the door. He needed her full attention right now.

"Samara…I already have enough problems as it is." One of them being his wife pregnant and the large possibility that the baby wasn't his but Shane's. "I don't need you joinin' the fray."

He licked his dry lips and placed his hands on his hips. "Now, you _will_ tell me what happened."

Samara watched him dispassionately before letting go of the sink and sitting on the rim of the tub with a grunt. Rick noted that when she sat down, pain flashed over her eyes and her shoulders tensed with sudden discomfort. Her eyes were averted from him as Samara started recounting the whole story—Dixon's refusal to go back, his slip down the valley, the house, the fight and finally the walkers. She may have let out some details, but she didn't see the harm in it after what happened.

Rick listened to her story with surprising cool even though underneath his blood boiled.

"What the hell is your problem with Daryl?" The man asked her once her story ended. "Ever since Wiltshire, you've done nothin' but antagonize him."

Of course, this was _her_ fault, Samara thought bitterly.

"Look, I have been dealing with his kind ever since I was assigned to West Virginia. They are all the same, make no mistake. Four years of them trying to kill me has made me quite apprehensive of these incest spawn fuckers. Shit, I almost got shot by some asshole a year ago just for stepping on his lawn!"

_What a welcome that had been…_

How many times had she dealt with the Dixie mafia, pot growers, drug dealers, outlaw M.C.'s? Never mind the ones that weren't even associated with them. They all were violent, dumb hicks that shot first and never questioned later. She had grown sick of it within the first year.

Samara suddenly separated from the tub and advanced on the sheriff, ferocity darkening her irises. Rick didn't move from his spot. He knew better than to back down from her.

Samara stopped not a scant few from inches from him, attempting to box him in but failing to her added irritation.

"You handcuffed his brother to a rooftop because he tried to kill you! I got stabbed in the shoulder by some bucktooth redneck not a month ago! I don't trust him and neither should you, no matter how _civil_ he appears to be."

Now Rick finally understood the last piece of the puzzle. At first he had believed that she was just wary of Daryl because of the stabbing incident before he met her, but her hatred ran much deeper. And the worst part was that it was misguided, at least in this instance. She was just letting out all that bottled up loathing on Daryl and he didn't deserve it.

"Samara, Daryl may not be the most tolerable of men but he would never jeopardize either of us. Not intentionally."

"You're taking his side then?"

He scrounged up his face in bewilderment. "There are no sides, Samara. Just the truth. And what I heard just now was that both of you let your anger get the better of you. You goaded him and he goaded you. And _you_ were the one to throw the first punch."

"He had no right to say that about John." Her face darkened with the sour memory. "I had my reasons…"

"I know." Rick nodded with the knowledge of their conversation on that night. "And he was in the wrong that time, but Daryl would only say that if he was cornered. I _know _you're keepin' some things to yourself, tryin' to paint him as the bad guy. But I know Daryl just as much as I know you."

Silence encompassed the interior of the bathroom and both watched each other with narrowed eyes—Samara in barely restrained resentment and Rick with strictness.

The sheriff closed his eyes and ran a tired hand over them. His nerves had been at the end of their wiggly bodies an hour ago and this new situation was pushing him to snapping again like he did with Lori. He took two deep breaths and his blue eyes regarded the marshal gravely.

—She needed a good dose of reality and if he had to ram it down her throat, he would.

"If Daryl is as bad as you think he is, then he would have never gone back after you at Wiltshire. That's the truth." His harsh tone cut through the bitterness and made the woman's left eye twitch. "He could've ignored what I said, blame it on not hearin', but he didn't. He wouldn't have offered the Doxycycline after you lost consciousness." Rick barely noticed the way her mouth gaped open suddenly. "He wouldn't be out there tryin' to look for a lost girl that he has no reason to. He ain't some monster that's about to attack you if you show your back to him."

"Just…try to see him as he is instead of mixin' him up with all the faces you hate. I'm not askin' you to be friends, just try to understand and stop judgin' him for somethin' he hasn't done. This ain't West Virginia and Daryl is not those people."

He was out of breath by the end of his little speech, his feelings pouring out of him like a tidal wave.

"And for God's sake, don't start up another fight."

Samara outside composure hadn't changed but Rick could see the tempest rampaging inside her. Her biting her lower lip announced him that she was at a loss. That his words actually reached her stubborn self.

"Why do you have so much faith in him?" Her voice was croaked and seemed far too small for her.

"Everyone deserves the benefit of a doubt. And if there's anythin' good that came out of this virus is the fact that it gave _all_ of us a second chance."

Samara's lips pursed. From the way the sheriff was looking at her, he probably believed that she had wasted her second chance on selfishness and apathy. Bitterness tastes very sour, the marshal thought.

_Well, fuck him._

"You think I'm some evil bitch, don't you?" A slow leer spread over her lips, already envisioning his affirmation with dark twisted pleasure. He would be a fool to think otherwise. Even she was aware that she was walking down a dark path.

"No, Samara." He shook his head wearily, making the grin slide right off her face. She was not evil; she was just resigned to this harsh world where no hope or warmth was left. "I just think you made up your mind about everythin' and everyone else before ever meetin' them, and you never once give them a chance to prove you wrong. You think Daryl is just some dumb redneck…You think I'm a hopeless fool that will get all of us killed."

Samara averted her eyes again. She didn't want him to see the truth of his words reflected in her eyes or the remorse that they sparked in his case.

Lori had asked him just a scant few days ago why he let Samara remain with them. His wife had no love for the woman, not after she bargained weapons in order to find Shane and bring Carl's medical supplies back. While his answer had been for the marshal's skills, his real reason was much deeper than that.

—Rick pitied Samara as much as he was wary of her.

And as such, he _wanted_ to help her. Samara was lost in this world, just going through the motions, getting hollow by each day. He wanted to show her that there was still good in this world. He couldn't tell Lori that he wanted to see that woman in the pictures: the one that smiled and kissed her husband lovingly and the one that affectionately had an arm over her father's shoulders. His wife wouldn't understand and would probably take it the wrong way.

He _needed_ for like Samara to regain back her trust and compassion in people, because if she couldn't then there was no hope for the rest of them. It's easy to lose your way and stop caring when you have lost everything around you. It's easier to give in and not get back on your feet and keep hoping even when the odds were against you. Because God knows, he had been in the same position three weeks ago (it felt more like a lifetime)and he found the strength to continue on what the marshal probably thought as a futile search for his most likely deceased family.

It hadn't been pointless in the end. And _that_ was why he wanted to help her.

He couldn't do it for her, though. Samara was the one that had to reach out first. But he could nudge her in the right direction.

"You understand now?" He leaned over so he could catch her eye. "I just want you to put away your distorted views on the world and _see_."

* * *

_See, sheriff?_

Well, what she _saw_ made her want to break something.

Samara was sitting on the porch steps overlooking the camp and its inhabitants. After her 'talk' with Rick, she had stayed in the bathroom for another half an hour to give herself enough time to regain her composure and examine her back. She almost groaned out loud when she saw the large purplish-blue bruise right between her shoulder blades and spreading to her lower back.

Well, it wasn't like she could do anything about it. It would heal on its own over time and as for the pain, she would just have to go back on painkillers. The marshal noticed with worry that she had become accustomed to the usual dose and that her body was starting to crave more. Soon, she'll have to go on mandatory no pills, even if her back felt like it was being stuffed into a meat grinder.

One by one she looked each human over and recalled her first impressions of them. Carol—useless, Lori—overprotective of her son and useless, Andrea—possibly depressed and useless, the children—useless and danger attractors, T-Dog—not afraid to put his neck out for his people, Glenn—jumpy like a rabbit, Shane—far too uptight, Daryl—redneck (that was enough for her), Dale—overprotective of Andrea, and lastly the sheriff…who was the sheriff.

These people were still dysfunctional once put together. They weren't a 'one group one mind' type, which was what kept them at odds with each other. The sheriff could preach about unity all he wanted, but his group was conga dancing towards the edge of the precipice. But after a week with them, these opinions of them had expanded into much more detailed repertoires as she observed them more closely.

Carol, despite her weaknesses, was a caring mother and from what Dale told her on their watch duty atop the RV, she had had a piece of shit husband that made her and her daughter's life a living hell. On the last day at the Atlanta camp, he got bit and Carol had been the one that put a pickaxe through his head. That took some balls for a woman that had been bullied most of her life. And Samara had been truthful about the woman giving up on the idea of her daughter still being alive. It was shriveling her up and the marshal wasn't sure if she would ever recover. Samara then frowned. Her conversation with Carol this morning repeated itself in her mind. The marshal was surprised that she had opened up to the woman, but she couldn't have helped it. Carol looked so pathetic and small that Samara just took pity on her and gave her a straight answer.

Andrea overcame her sister's death and her suicide attempt and finally found her strength in this new world even if it was only for the sake of one's own survival. She was starting to pull her weight around camp that didn't revolve around washing clothes and Samara respected that.

Samara's view on Lori hadn't changed much other than the fact that Samara noticed her being more nauseous these days. The marshal made a point to watch what she was eating; if Mrs. Sheriff could get food poisoning so could she.

Dale had turned from overprotective of Andrea to protective of _all_ his new family. It was just in the old man's nature to care. In a way he was the moral compass of the group which annoyed the marshal at times since his views contradicted with what was supposed to be done logically. Samara wasn't a fan of people that put emotion ahead of reason.

The children…well child of the group had well-put intentions. Samara hadn't spent that much time with Carl since she tried to avoid his sick room and him as much as possible. The marshal _loathed_ seeing children either dying or in pain.

Her view on T-Dog was the same. He was a straightforward guy who was braver than most and not about to step back from a difficult situation. He didn't take anyone's bullshit and had a good head on his shoulders. Samara approved of people like that.

Glenn, while still jumpy and sometimes grating on her nerves, was just as brave as T-Dog. Samara had heard the full story on how he let himself be taken down the well where the walker was and he managed to rope the corpse even under the stressful situation he had been under. That earned him some brownie points.

Shane…Ah, now he was a precarious one. Physically, he was built for this world, mentally he wasn't. Not really. If he had been slowly exposed to it, he would have definitely ended up like her—cold, calm and calculated. But instead he was thrust into it, dealing with situations that his heart and mind wasn't ready for and now his churned up emotions were lashing out. Also, it didn't help that he was the odd man in the group's thinking. Samara wasn't sure how his story was going to end.

She wasn't about to delve into who Grimes was, she'd known from their time driving towards Atlanta. He was a pretty straight-forward guy, after all. Samara had been pondering for the past few days on why she listened to him half the time when she almost never did with anyone else that she didn't concern herself for. Then it hit her like a sack of bricks to the head.

–Her _father_.

He reminded her of her father.

_Oh gods, why didn't I see this sooner?_ It was practically staring right at her!

Same principles. Same no bullshit attitude. Same stern look when she did or said something offensive. Same tolerance for her biting retorts.

Samara groaned. She couldn't believe this…She just projected her father onto the first guy she _precariously_ trusted in this new world. She trusted Grimes, however unlikely that would seem to outsiders. Because she _knew_ he would never leave her behind. Their relationship wasn't based on equality, though. Samara took more than she gave, she knew that. And Rick knew that which probably was what frustrated so.

Well, Samara thought with a sigh, at least she didn't see her husband in him. _That would have been weird…_

And lastly, Daryl Dixon.

Samara had been rattling her brain to figure him out ever since her stay with the group had been prolonged. He cared for these people, that much was obvious. Somehow they had crawled under his skin and stayed there and, unexpectedly, he didn't seem to mind. Samara was sure that if she threatened one of them, he would be the first to level his weapon at her. He wasn't ruthless; the marshal knew he had the potential, but he chooses not to. It was probably the group that did it, kept whatever darkness he had in him at bay.

_Second chance…_ Was that what he was grasping at?

Samara watched the hunter from beneath her lashes. He was outside his tent on that used folding stool, cleaning up his crossbow and arrows. Immediately, resentment crawled into her throat like bile. Their fight was still fresh in her mind.

She could not forgive him for what he said…his word had been much too close to the truth than she would have liked. Practical reason had been a part of it, but mostly it was better than finding a charred corpse or an undead John. She didn't think she could emotionally survive something like the latter.

So she had been a coward. _Sue me._

The marshal shook her head of these depressing thoughts. She did not want to jump back into that over examined issue. She had emotionally exhausted herself by looking at it from all sides, from in and out, and she begrudgingly came to terms with it.

A wince suddenly appeared, the shouting fest at the house once again passing through her mind. Gods, she hadn't screamed like that in ages. Not since two years ago with her husband. Samara didn't usually let go of her self-control, it being too precious to her. _That_ and it made her stupid.

_Getting into a fist fight and throwing furniture around_, she groaned, a hand covering her face. She wasn't an angsty teen anymore where that sort of behavior was acceptable since it could be blamed on developing hormones and rebellious tendencies. She was thirty-three years old, for the gods' sakes! _And_ with eight years of Army, no bullshit, discipline along with six years of lawman restraint. That shouldn't have happened!

—It was rather embarrassing and it shot her pride down to ashes.

Her father would be gravely disappointed with her.

But something had just snapped at his words, something deep inside and she had let all that frustration that she had bottled up for the past twenty-four hours spew right onto him.

Then the icing on the cake. Samara felt her lips mold in disgust as she remembered the feeling of grinding against the hick like a bitch in heat. It had been necessary since she realized earlier that the man shied away from physical contact. His expression once she did it...now that had been funny. He looked short of having a heart attack.

But there had been an unwelcome twinge traveling from her stomach downwards as she felt their hips join. It was like a bolt of electricity had passed through them, making the marshal shiver in delight.

It was that primordial sensation between a man and a woman that has existed ever since the dawn of human kind, Samara thought. And the extended period of time she had been on the dry hadn't helped. She and John hadn't had any physical contact in four months and add the extra three on the road, it had been similar to a junkie getting a taste of heroin after being put through rehab.

Samara shook her head violently. The last thing she needed was to have _any_ kind of reaction towards _Daryl Dixon_.

With a sigh, Samara's eyes hardened into cold marbles. She wasn't going to patch things up with him, screw what Grimes said. Dixon had been a bastard and a half, and she could not forgive someone who cut her so deeply like that.

What she needed right now was time. Time to lick her wounds and time away from that man. If she was anywhere near him right now, she would kill him.

* * *

**Foot Note:** Poor Daryl…Samara abuses him so much, I'm starting to feel sorry for him. But I guess they're even seeing how Samara gets her ass chewed out by Rick _and_Daryl. A tooth for a tooth, yeah? Or was it an eye…


	10. Dare to Hope

**Note: **This chapter Samara is gonna have more interaction with the others.

Sorry for not updating. I only noticed today that it's been two weeks since the last post—and that's only because Shelley pointed it out (I probably wouldn't have noticed for another week or so, so thanks). Been busy I guess…that and a lack of motivation to write TWD. I started writing some Sengoku Basara fic and I got too engrossed in it.

After this chapter I'm gonna need some time to write for 'Ring of Fire'. I only have a quarter of chapter 11 written, so it's gonna take a while to update. I want to have 12 written out so I don't feel behind on the fic.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

The moment Samara left her tent in the morning, she was greeted to the sight of the hunter riding away into the forest.

Tch. _Running away, now?_

The marshal was almost tempted to follow him and shoot the horse while he was atop it just to piss him off. But her back and hand were killing her and she reasoned that it would be better for her to take a day off and recuperate. Then she'll shoot the horse with him atop it!

Samara slowly made her way to the center of the camp, Alistair following her obediently since she had his meal in her hand. She had actually let the dog sleep inside with her last night. She had needed something to comfort her frayed temper and, strangely, stroking his fur always managed to do that. It was the repetition, she concluded. Since dissembling and cleaning her guns was not at hand, Alistair was the closest outlet.

She spotted T-Dog at the cooking pit, frying eggs and ham on a large pan. Her mouth practically watered at the sight of real breakfast. The man looked up once he noticed the sun's light being blocked from him and saw the marshal's frown first.

"Left you behind, huh?" Making his own assumptions for her cranky disposition.

Samara glared at him, before her eyes slid to the pan. "Is that for you or for all?"

"For some." A wooden spoon snapped against willowy fingers once they came too close to the golden, puffy chow. "Wait your turn."

With a huff, Samara picked up a plastic plate and left him to his cooking. The marshal's brow twitched when she heard him chuckle.

Stopping at the picnic table, she plopped down on the bench and placed the plate on the ground. Opening the dry dog food bag she dumped a portion onto the plate, some small bits bouncing off and onto the ground. Alistair didn't seem to mind as he dug into his chow.

Samara plucked her cigarette pack and lighter from her pant pocket. Lighting one up, she took a deep inhale and reveled in the nicotine sensation.

Placing her chin on her open palm, she observed her surroundings. It was a lazy day, the heat having accelerated back to its usual high temperature. One would think that yesterday's cold rain had been a dream.

Speaking of dreams, she noticed the lack of them. Up until now, she had been constantly having nightmares—about her husband usually. That one time a few days ago with the nursery, that had been a first. Probably caused by Carl's situation. But since then, nothing. Not one nightmare.

Samara hadn't slept this well in _very_ long time. It felt good not waking up sweating like a pig or with a soundless scream escaping her clogged throat.

Olive eyes slid towards the front door of the Greene's house once it opened and Lori and Carl came out. The boy was moving at a snail's pace, but he seemed alright.

A plate of scrambled eggs along with utensils was placed in front of the marshal, breaking her out of her musings.

"Breakfast's ready."

Samara watched as T-Dog took a seat opposite her with his own plate in hand.

"Since when did he get on his feet?" She pointed her cigarette towards the boy.

"Yesterday. He's getting better, just so you know."

Stubbing her cigarette on the table—which brought out a hairy eyeball from the man opposite her—Samara was about to dig in when she paused and gave him a wary look. "Are you going to hit me again?"

He smirked. "Only if you try stealing my food."

The marshal then ate her portion in silence, not feeling the need to strike up a conversation again. T-Dog didn't seem to mind as he himself was not the talkative type.

"You know," He started halfway into their meal. "I don't know what happened between you and Daryl yesterday. He wasn't too chatty about it and Rick was rather vague on the whole ordeal, but don't you think you should cut him some slack?"

Samara stopped mid chew and rolled her eyes exasperatedly. Whatever good mood she had felt suddenly vanished at the mention of _him_. "Gods, is everyone on the Dixon wagon these days?"

"Trust me, I don't think there's anyone here, other than Carol, that hasn't thought of punching him at least once. But the man's changed." The man stopped eating his food and gave her a sincere gaze, flashes of the highway passing through his mind. "Never thought I would see the day a Dixon would save my life…Guess stranger things can happen."

"Are you telling me that he's a saint now?"

"Hardly. He's still an asshole at times." His laugh was cut short and his lips settled into a grim line. "But you ain't any better either."

Samara gave him a flat stare.

"I'm just telling it how I see it."

"You barely know me." She prodded her food viciously.

"True, but you haven't exactly been subtle. You think I don't remember you aiming a gun at me back on the highway?" He knew now without a doubt that she would have shot him if he had been bit. "That coupled with all the manipulative shit I heard you do, bargaining for guns and all that. Damn girl, it doesn't take much to figure you out."

Her appetite suddenly vanished, feeling as another lecture was headed her way on her conduct. "Oh gods, do you want me to apologize?" Why did everyone find her behavior so repulsive? Was thinking and looking out for oneself so alien to these people that it made _her_ the freak? Gods, it seemed that throwing oneself in front of a mass of walkers was the only way to gain these people's liking.

"Didn't say that." He shrugged. "You can't help who you are, but you can change. 'And I will give them one heart, and a new spirit I will put within them. I will remove the heart of stone from their flesh and give them a heart of flesh', Ezekiel 11:19."

Samara just stared at him in a faintly disturbed fashion. "…If you start preaching, I'm leaving."

T-Dog just laughed and waved her off. "I was just emphasizing my point."

"I used to be like you, you know?" At her blatant skepticism, the man explained. "I _hated_ Daryl. Back in Atlanta, he was just another racist prick that couldn't hold a conversation without insulting someone. I used to dream of the day Shane finally got fed up with him and his brother's bullshit and drove them out of the camp."

"But then his brother got out of the picture and he just…mellowed down." His voice lowered as it was an uncomfortable memory he was speaking of—that day on the rooftop when he dropped the key and left Merle to a pack of walkers. "I left him behind, you know? Merle."

So that was his name_…What a hick name_, Samara thought dryly.

"Is this the other half of the Atlanta story?"

"You don't know it?" At the shake of her head, T-Dog put down his fork and recalled that day. How Daryl almost killed him when he heard that he left his brother behind because of a mistake. How they went back looking for him only to find his severed hand left cuffed to the roof and a trail of blood leading to a window out into the street. T-Dog didn't recount the meeting with the Vatos, he didn't think the marshal would care much for it.

"He cut off his own hand?" Her eyes were wide with astonishment and nausea churned in her stomach. It took some serious balls to saw off a body part, not to mention without any medication to numb it out.

"Merle was a real shithead, worse than Daryl, but he was tough." That was probably the only supposed good quality he had had. Still has, if Daryl's belief was real.

"So, you're saying that Daryl's asshole streak was influenced by his brother?" That's the final conclusion Samara came to out of this discussion.

"That's what _I_ believe." T-Dog swallowed his portion of eggs before continuing. "I mean yeah, he's got his own, but I think most of it was because of Merle." That and the way the older Dixon treated the younger. He was always cruel, even more so when he was high.

"So because Daryl saved your life, now you don't hate him anymore?" This conversation was going in a direction she did not want to. T-Dog was talking about change of heart. She couldn't just do that at a snap of her fingers or a few words from a man she barely knew.

"I don't hate him, but I don't love the guy." His expression turned thoughtful. "I guess you could say that we found common ground. I suggest you two find yours, cause trust me, it makes life easier."

At the back of her head, she remembered Shane telling her something of the same nature. She snorted as she started eating again. "Our common ground lasted for a total of fifteen minutes and then _he_ ruined it. I tried."

"Did you?"

"Yes." _Not really_.

T-Dog watched her closely but saw no flaws in her mask and so had no choice but to take her up on her words, although there was a part of him that knew she wasn't being honest. While her actions were brutally frank, her words weren't always.

"If you say so."

They lapsed back into silence after that and Samara was grateful for it. She's had enough of their Dixon related conversation. She couldn't believe that even T-Dog was attempting to reach out to her about the man. The marshal wondered when Carol would approach her since she seemed to be the closest to Dixon.

All this pressure from the others was frustrating. She did not want to concede to it and she will _not_. They could all gang up on her for all and she still wouldn't budge one inch.

"Uh…Mrs. Samara?" A quiet, hesitant voice made the table's human and animal occupants raise their heads. Beth, the younger of the Greene girls was not a meter away from them flanked by her older sister Maggie.

"Don't call me that, kid. I'm not that old."

"Sorry." The petit blonde gave her a small smile. "My dad told us that we should find you for gun trainin'."

"Did he now?" An unconvinced brow rose. "Because I heard that your boyfriend went against your father's wishes last time. Can't help but be cautious."

"No, our father was the one that suggested it." Maggie intervened and placed her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out defiantly. "So, can you teach us?"

Samara internally snickered at the woman's haughty attitude. _Younglings..._

She nodded nonetheless. It was a good sign; Hershel was finally starting to reach out to her. After this she was going to take it slowly with them, starting with the sisters. They were the majority in the old man's house and having three women gang up on you is not a pleasant experience. If Samara could get them to trust her, she was in.

"We're actually going to the shooting range in about an hour." T-Dog said after swallowing his last bite. "You can all tag along."

"Great." Maggie nodded before motioning her sister to head to the house and get ready. "We'll see you then."

T-Dog watched them go before turning on the marshal with an inquiring look. "Making friends with the old man, huh?"

"You got a problem with that?"

He shook his head, attempting to hide the incredulous smirk that threatened to show.

* * *

It took over an hour for everyone to get ready and drive up to the shooting range that Shane had put up days ago. Even the sheriff's son was with them. How that happened Samara had no idea. Some arm twisting and puppy dog eyes were most likely involved.

Shane, Rick and Samara were the instructors, each with their batch of people to train. Samara had taken the Greene girls and Jimmy and was watching the firepower display with bored eyes. The majority of them couldn't hit a bottle or tin can if their life depended on them. She had to rearrange the sister's stances and adjust their aims, but even then Samara knew it would take some time until they were adequate.

"They're crap."

The marshal announced suddenly to the two Kentucky lawmen. They were a pacing behind the line of people, observing each person's progress. Andrea was the only one who seemed to be progressing and she was _loving_ _it_ judging from the wide grin on her face.

"They have time to get better." Rick said as his eyes went back to his son. T-Dog was with him, inspecting his handle of a handgun.

"I don't think coming back here every few days is a good idea." Her eyes slid across their surroundings, vigil of any walking corpses. "It's bad enough that you people are making all this noise. _Repeatedly_ doing it is just short of suicidal."

"You're worryin' too much again." While Rick knew her worries were viable, there was nothing he could do about it. The group needed to learn how to defend themselves and blades wouldn't always work. He had staved off the gun training for far too long and there was no excuse this time.

"One of these days sheriff, you are going to say 'Hey, maybe I was wrong. _Maybe_ Samara was right'."

Rick shook his head with a concealed smirk. It seemed that yesterday's talk hadn't affected her mood around him too much. "Even if I had one of those moments, I probably wouldn't say it out loud."

"Wouldn't want to ruin your image, huh oh-mighty-leader?"

The sheriff's lips quirked for a second before he went back to his survey.

The deputy watched the two with interest. Shane and Samara were closer in nature and they didn't get along. Whenever they talked it felt like they were juggling with grenades. And after the saloon it was worse since the woman avoided remaining alone with him at any moment. But her and Rick…they were polar opposites and despite them not actually trusting one another, they still managed to get along.

He didn't understand the relationship between these two, what actually connected them. Why Rick let her stay with them even after her obvious disregard for all of them. Now _that_ was something that had Shane spinning in circles and Rick was hesitant to disclose his thoughts on the matter.

"Not everyone is bad. Andrea's doin' just fine." Shane motioned to the blond who was shooting the center of the O in the 'No Trespassers' sign.

"I say she's got the hang of it." Rick said with a smirk.

Samara gave him a deadpan stare. "Even a child can shoot motionless targets." Her point was made as Carl shot a bottle and let out a loud whoop.

"Guess it's time for the advanced class." Shane said as he departed from the duo and headed for the woman in question.

"Daryl left without you." Rick said suddenly, out of everyone's earshot. "He even took a horse without permission from Hershel."

The marshal gasped mockingly. "Horse thievery? Dear me, someone call the police."

Rick mentally rolled his eyes, before appraising her closely. "I see you haven't put much thought into repairin' your relationship with him."

"You would be correct." She then grimaced. "And don't call it a _relationship_. It makes it seem more than it is."

Rick left her to her crabbiness in favor of watching his son. Carl seemed so proud of his accomplishment of shooting bottles and tin cans off the fence. A few months ago he was proud of kicking a soccer ball into a goalpost and earning points for his team. And now he was learning how to shoot a gun so he wouldn't remain defenseless…to kill and not be killed.

How far the world has changed and they along with it, Rick thought with sudden melancholy.

It wasn't the first time his thoughts revolved around what would happen to his son when he grew up. A question always nagged at him in particular and had his breathing pick up. Would he grow up and be like him, Shane or…His gaze slid to the woman beside him and his lips involuntarily downturned.

He did not want this fate for Carl. It was not fair that he had to grow up in this world, surrounded by death at every turn. How long would it take for him to lose his humanity? To revert to baser instincts and wants? Rick wasn't always going to be there beside him and neither was Lori. One day they would both die and Carl will be on his own, and what then?

—The thought made him swallow the choking knot in his throat.

Rick remained unaware that the woman beside him was watching him carefully, cataloging all the emotions that ranged across his face with a hint of worry.

Rick's thoughts then ventured towards the baby. How it would impact his family's life, the group's life. They were almost halfway through September. If his calculations were correct, his wife would deliver somewhere around April or May next year. She would need medicine, vitamins, better accommodations, more food, supervision of the baby's growth and a doctor most importantly, one that wasn't a veterinarian.

But without a hospital how were they supposed to know everything was alright? The infant could die while still in the womb and they would have no knowledge of it, not until Lori's date was due. What if was born sickly? They would be at a loss again without a doctor to treat the condition. Could his family even survive a loss like that?

And when he or she was born, what then? He had pleaded again with Hershel yesterday to reconsider. They couldn't leave, not anymore. He could not let his pregnant wife travel on the road with no roof over her head and dangers at all corners. They needed the protection of the farm now more than ever.

This baby—_His_ baby would make things right. Between him and Lori. He just knew.

—This was their second chance.

But Lori…When Carl was born she had to do a C-section since natural birth was dangerous for her.

His breaths were audible at this point.

"Stop." A stern husky voice suddenly broke the panicked haze that enveloped him.

"What?" He questioned in bewilderment.

Samara was looking him with disturbed eyes. "Whatever is weighting on you so heavily, stop thinking about it. You're making me worry and I don't like it." Her eyes then traveled from his face to his hands and up again. "And you're making yourself sick."

Rick was only now aware that his hands were shaking and that cold sweat poured down his forehead, not to mention the queasiness that bore holes in his stomach. He didn't even want to know what his face conveyed.

"Do you…want to talk about it?"

Her sincere concern had Rick slightly startled and his lip corner twitched with insecurity. He was not sure if he could speak with Samara about matters such as these. He did not need to hear her cynicism or her logic on why _not_ to have a child at this point. He was pretty sure that she would be in agreement with Lori's initial idea of aborting the baby.

"I can't."

As he did not explain further, Samara nodded uncertainly and went back to observing the others. That was one of aspects he liked about her. If he didn't want to talk, she didn't push, but let him open up on his own time, on his own terms.

Rick needed a few minutes to regain his composure and lock away his thoughts deep inside. This was not the time to deal with those issues since he was certain he would have a panic attack or worse, a breakdown. And the others most certainly didn't need to see that.

Before Rick could leave Samara's side, a subject came to the forefront of his mind. One that he had wanted to speak with her about. One that he had been putting off for far too long.

"Samara…there's somethin' we need to talk." A grave look crystallized his blue orbs. "This is important. It affects _all_ of us."

The marshal watched him closely before nodding slowly. Her gaze then slid over his shoulders to the others and Rick understood her question.

"Not here. Later, when there's no one around."

* * *

An hour later they had left the shooting range and headed back to camp. Out of the Greene sisters, Beth surprisingly was the most adept at shooting a gun. Next was Maggie then Jimmy and finally Patricia who seemed more scared of the weapon than anything. At the end of the session, the marshal felt a slight pang of pride at the sight of their accomplishments. For greenhorns that never touched a gun in their lives, they did alright.

Once at the farm, Samara had thought that the sheriff would approach her about the 'important business' they needed to discuss. But instead, the marshal was left to her own devises.

She was fine with that. Her body was still recuperating from yesterday's activities and she needed to rest. Swallowing two painkillers, she settled back in her tent and picked up on her reading. Alistair entered the tent several minutes after her and curled along her thigh for a nap.

Samara had observed the dog's recuperation and he was showing signs of progress. Hershel had mentioned to her that it would take about a week for Alistair to get better, but since the little excursion into town it would probably take a few more days before she could bring him along in the forest.

Samara had no idea how much time had passed when she heard Andrea—who was atop the RV as the lookout—yell walker.

Without missing a beat, Samara threw the book aside and picked up her machete. Her abrupt actions startled the dog and he ran out of the tent, thinking the worse for him at the sight of the blade. Outside, the men were running around the camp, gathering machetes and other weapons they could use.

"I bet I can nail it from here." The marshal heard the blonde say with a hint of excitement.

"No, Andrea." Rick waved her off when she picked up a rifle. "Put the gun down."

"You'd best let us handle this." Shane shouted to her as he picked up a pickaxe and ran towards the walker, T-Dog beside him with a baseball bat and Glen with a machete.

Rick tried to stop Shane, telling him that Hershel wanted to deal with walkers his own way, but he would have none of it. With a curse, the sheriff ran inside the RV and came back not two seconds later with his Colt.

As he passed Samara, he heard her speak clearly. "Don't shoot it."

"I know." He said as he continued running.

Samara did not follow them. Four men were overkill for one walker and instead she opted to observe from a distance. Also, the way Andrea kept fidgeting and gripping the rifle put her on edge.

Alistair finally came out of his hiding and stopped next to his owner, peering over the field with perked ears.

The group was halfway to the walker when the blonde woman laid flat on her belly atop the RV and aimed the rifle again, her eye peering through the scope.

"Don't even think about it."

Andrea's closed eye opened and gazed down to the marshal who was giving her a reprimanding glower.

"Andrea, I think—I think you should listen." Dale said as he watched Rick and the others approach the walker from his position on the RV ladder. There was a feeling in his gut that told him that something was _wrong_.

"I can take this." She spat a tad irritated at both of them. After the admirable gun training today, she really wanted to exercise on undead, moving targets.

"Don't you remember what I said on the highway?" Samara took a step closer to the RV, her grip on the machete tightening. A fleeting idea came and went that consisted of throwing the blade at the woman.

The blonde scoffed as she readied the rifle and target the corpse. "It's one bullet. It won't bring an army."

Green eyes narrowed threateningly. "Listen, you dumb blonde. You shoot that gun, I'll—"

Andrea tuned her out five seconds ago and pulled the trigger.

_Bang._

The trio watched as the walker went down like a sack of potatoes.

"See? Told ya I'd get it." A grin spread over her lips and her blue eyes gleamed proudly.

Samara was about to throw a rather foul rant Andrea's way on the use of guns on the property and attracting attention of other walkers, but her words died in her mouth when Rick started yelling in despair.

"No! No!"

The accomplished grin on Andrea's face slid right off and her brows furrowed in confusion.

"Oh no." Dale said hollowly as his gut feeling exponently grew. In that moment, he just _knew_ that that person had not been a walker.

He slid off the ladder and started running towards the other. Samara, intrigued and surprised that a man his age could run that fast, followed him with Alistair right on her trail. The marshal heard rather than saw Andrea descend the ladder and run right after them.

A distant male shout from Hershel and a female yell from Lori reached their ears, but they ignored them and kept running.

It could only be a man, Samara thought. Otherwise the sheriff wouldn't have reacted like that. But…his yell had been rather distressed. He would never be _that_ upset over a stranger. Unless—

Samara's eyes widened as she got closer to the men.

"Oh my God!" By this point Andrea outran Dale, Samara and the dog and stopped a short distance of the small group. Her hands flew to her mouth in shock. "Oh my God!"

Samara finally reached them and laid her eyes on the sight of Andrea's actions. Daryl was carried by the two Kentucky lawmen, seemingly dead or unconscious, his head on Rick's shoulder. He was absolutely filthy, covered in mud and dirt, and there was blood painted around his mouth and splattered on his chin. There was also blood trickling down from the left side of his temple—courtesy of Andrea—down his face and neck and into his shirt, and a large crimson patch colored the left side of his abdomen with a makeshift binding across it. And—

Samara's brain did a double take.

_What the fuck?_

…_Are those ears around his neck?_

"Is he dead?" Andrea finally asked, her voice shaky with fright.

"Unconscious. You just grazed him." Rick said as he didn't stop from his stride. They needed to get Daryl to Hershel right now.

"But look at him! What the hell happened?" Glenn motioned to the ears with wide, troubled eyes. "He's wearing ears!"

Rick shook his head having no idea on how to answer something like that. He was also rather disturbed by Daryl's new addition to his wardrobe, not to mention the shock he received when the bullet hit him. He had really thought that in that moment the hunter was dead. Thank God Andrea wasn't a good shot yet or otherwise they would have had another tragedy on their hands.

Rick's eyes then widened when he saw his wife and the Greene's approach. He didn't need Hershel seeing this. With a yank he ripped the necklace of Daryl's neck. The sheriff's eyes connected with Samara's, who was eyeing the hunter with strange emotion, and he threw the ears at her before she even realized it. By reflex she caught them and her face contorted into disgust once they were in her palm.

"Keep them out of sight."

"Thanks." She smiled tersely as she pocketed the ears.

"Guys!" T-Dog's raised voice cut through the tension. Everyone turned around to look at him and they were left in various degrees of astonishment as he held an object out for everyone to see.

—It was a doll.

"Isn't this Sophia's?"

* * *

Rick and Shane had brought Daryl back into the house and placed him in a spare bedroom room while Hershel had shouted to Patricia to bring him his kit. Once she did, the older man shut the door behind him and the others were left in the dark.

The marshal along with Lori had waited outside the door, while Dale and T-Dog were in the living room with Carl. Andrea was outside unable to step foot in the house, not after what she almost did. Carol was also in the living room clutching the doll to her chest, not speaking to anyone. Alistair was beside her, his furry head on her thigh, watching her rocking motions with sad eyes. Patricia and Beth were seated next to her, trying their best to comfort the mother. Maggie was in the kitchen with Glenn, both speaking in hushed voices.

"You still think Sophia's dead, don't you? Even with the doll."

Lori's voice woke Samara from her vigil state. She had been listening to the happenings in the room when she was abruptly cut off.

"Why do you ask when you already know the answer." Samara said offhandedly as she was already attuning her hearing back to the room.

"I just can't understand your way of thinkin'." Lori said from her crouched place on the floor, her eyes on her interlaced hands instead of the marshal.

"I advise you not to." Samara's brow furrowed. "It's a dark place."

Lori said nothing after that and Samara internally sighed in relief. The last thing she wanted right now was to strike up a conversation with the sheriff's wife. Ever since the high-school incident, the woman had made it her duty to avoid Samara at all times and to equally keep her son away.

The marshal had an inkling that the woman didn't like her very much…

In a way, Samara did not want to be here. Just because the redneck was injured didn't mean it dampened her bruised heart. A part of her felt pleasure for his beaten up state, but the larger part…she did not delve into that. It was dangerous foreign territory. But she stayed put since she knew that the moment the sheriff came out he'll come searching for her. She was the only other tracker they had and he would most likely want her to go to the doll's last location.

Samara's interest perked up when she heard the redneck's gruff voice. Dixon began explaining the reason for his state. The horse he was on had gotten spooked and threw him off the saddle. Unfortunately for him, they had been right near the edge of the creek and he had tumbled down landing right on the stone and onto one of his arrows.

Samara's lips quirked. _Talk about falling on your own sword…_

Daryl explained further that he attempted to climb back up only to slip and fall right back into the creek, hitting his head along the way. He woke up to find a walker chewing on his boot and another gaining up on him. He destroyed the walkers and found the strength to climb up and out of the creek.

At the end of his story, Samara was begrudgingly impressed. The man had been through quite the ordeal and he still managed to climb a five feet earth wall.

When Hershel wondered out loud how Grimes' group managed to have lived for so long after all the mistakes they did, Samara couldn't help herself. An amused snort unconsciously escaped her throat, earning a rather chastising look from Lori.

The door to the room opened and the two lawmen exited. Lori quickly rose to her feet and embraced her husband. The man seemed to sag in her hug before the tension returned full force as Shane began speaking.

"I hate to say it, but I'm with Hershel on this one." He folded the map and stared at Rick with grave eyes. "Can't keep goin' out there, not after this."

Rick gave his friend a terse look. "You'd quit now? Daryl just risked his life to bring back the first hard evidence we've had."

"That is one way to look at it." Shane nodded apathetically. "The way I see it, Daryl almost died today for a _doll_."

The sheriff's brow furrowed, a faint look of disgust darkening his blues. "Yeah, I know how you see it."

"He's right." Samara suddenly spoke as Grimes was about to end the conversation. He turned to her and for a second, Samara thought she saw a trace of upset on his face before it quickly disappeared. Shane was in equal state of surprise as he did not anticipate her to side with him.

The marshal shrugged. "That doll could have been there for over a week or maybe it got washed miles down the stream."

"You don't know that." Rick's eyes narrowed.

"Neither do you." The woman took a firmer stance, trying to make the sheriff understand. "Look, kids don't leave their toys behind without a good reason. As in running for their lives."

"Right." Shane intervened eagerly, making Samara's brow twitch. She _hated_ being interrupted. "For all we know, Sophia dropped the doll the day she got lost."

"Point is," Samara gave Shane a disapproving glower. "_If_ she's alive, she's probably somewhere we won't find her. Except for that abandoned house and the creek, which by the way isn't exactly a strong ground to base anything by, we have nothing else. Not even a direction. It's pointless."

"You don't have a say in this." Lori interjected as she sternly crossed her arms. Her chest was heaving with suppressed anger. "You're not part of our group. This does not concern you."

The marshal gave her an irritated look as one would gaze upon a pestering fly. "I'm well aware of that. I'm just giving you my opinion."

"I think everyone is aware of your opinions, and nobody wants to hear them."

"I don't give a damn if you feel offended by my words. I'm just laying down the facts that you _all_ obviously don't want to hear."

"Enough." Rick raised his palms when Lori opened her mouth to retort. That didn't sit well with his wife judging from the irritated look thrown at him. "You two fightin' does not help. And I really don't want to hear this right now."

He then turned to the scowling marshal and made sure she understood his next words. "You and me are headin' out tomorrow mornin' to the creek."

After a beat, Samara conceded knowing that she could not escape from this. The sheriff was capable of tying her up and dragging her along if he had to.

With heavy and brisk steps Rick headed towards the living room, leaving them behind. Samara wasted no time and left Lori and Shane's presence. They were the last people she wanted to be around right now. She briefly contemplated on the fact that she now had a third person on the 'shit list'. Shane, Daryl and now Lori.

Samara really hoped that that list wouldn't lengthen. She neither had the time nor the patience for disputes.

The marshal passed Grimes that was explaining the events to the others and headed outside, Alistair right on her heels. Andrea was on the porch steps looking over the field with vacant eyes, but at the sound of the door opening she almost jumped out of her skin.

"How is he?" She scrambled to her feet, feeling her heart beat uncomfortably fast.

"Alive and talking." Samara along with Alistair descended the stairs.

Andrea let out a loud breath in relief and her palms covered her face. The weight on her shoulders seemed to lighten by the second as they sagged tiredly.

"I'm sorry." The blonde called out as the Native passed her. Andrea took a deep breath and continued. "You were right. I shouldn't have pulled the trigger."

"At least you only grazed him." The marshal shrugged as she plucked her cigarette pack and lighter from her pant pocket. Lighting one up, she eyed the blonde. "Andrea, I know you're eager to show your skills but you need to be patient."

"I'm not the patient type." She grumbled begrudgingly as she sat back on the porch.

"No shit."

Alistair moved and settled on his belly next to Andrea's feet. A pale hand came atop his head and scratched behind his ears. The dog enjoyed the attention as he leaned into her palm.

"I just…don't want to be useless anymore." Her voice was far off as she stared at the monotone fur.

Ringlets of smoke breezed over Samara's head. Her green eyes stared at the woman hesitantly before a sigh escaped her and she sat on the lowest stair with her feet propped on the wooden plank and her back resting on the railing. Samara wasn't even aware of the way her body and mind attuned to the blonde's disposition. To position herself in a certain way to create a comfortable atmosphere so Andrea could continue talking without being disturbed. It was her marshal training propelling her. Interrogation, hearing confessions, talking down violent idiots had been part of her job not so long ago (the last part, she freely admitted that she wasn't good at). It was second nature for her to listen.

"I've been useless since the virus broke out. I should have learned sooner how to handle a gun. If I did, I could have saved my sister. I could have shot that walker before it even got near her. But instead I just sat around for months, waitin' for the cavalry to roll in and help us all." Andrea shook her head despondently. "Fuckin' stupid."

It seemed that even now she wasn't passed the mourning. Andrea had probably just buried it deep down and filled the void with activities, trying to stave her mind off it.

"You believe it's your fault she died."

Andrea's blonde brows furrowed in thought. "I'm the older sister. I'm the one that was supposed to protect Amy. My father…he died when my sister was still a teenager. Bad heart, you know. He made me promise to look after her, _always_. To keep her safe." Her grip on the dog's fur tightened making Alistair squirm underneath her hand. "And I failed."

"And the worst part was that we were just startin' to get along again. We had a rift a few years ago. Amy left for college and I was busy with my cases and we just…lost contact. I was just beginnin' to bond with my sister when that…_piece of shit_ bit her." Andrea finished with a sad exhale.

"I never had a brother or a sister, so I don't really know how a bond like that works." Samara inhaled deeply as she was about to open up again. First had been with Carol yesterday and now with Andrea today. She really _was_ getting soft. "But I know what it feels like to blame yourself for a loved one's death, especially when it's _not_ your fault. It's irrational and painful as hell, but you can't blame yourself for this Andrea, no matter how much you want to. It will eat you up and spit you out a gnarled mess."

"And as cliché as this may sound, shit _really_ does just happen. And there's nothing you or anyone else can do to stop it." Samara had stopped believing some years ago that there was a motive to happenings. Death, tragedy, sickness. It was all a series of random events, devoid of reason. We were the ones that attached explanations to it so we could make ourselves feel better. So the world wouldn't be so desolate.

Andrea's grip on the dog loosened (Alistair, disgruntled, ran off once she released him) and her blue eyes stared at the marshal hawkishly. Her gaze then slowly lowered to the hand holding the cigarette where a wedding band was glaring at her from the light of the sun. The blonde made her own deductions from there.

"You're just a guidebook on advice, huh?" Andrea spoke softly, her eyes never leaving the wedding band.

"Hardly. Just speaking out of experience." She chuckled sadly, puffs of smoke escaping with each laugh. "And as one that has been there, I advise you to cut that shit out effective immediately. Otherwise you're going to end up like those undead bastards out there," _Like me_, "Just aimlessly walking around—"

"Eatin' people?" Andrea asked sardonically.

"Well your taste buds will be shot to shit, depression does that. So you won't have to worry."

"Yeah, I heard human flesh tastes like chicken." Andrea nodded seriously before she started shaking in laughter.

Samara couldn't stave off the blonde's infectious laughter and smiled in good nature, crow's feet appearing at the corner of her eyes. It hurt her cheeks to smile. Felt like years had passed since she'd last done it.

Andrea finally stopped laughing and shook her head to dispel the good mood. "I'll try to keep your advice in mind."

The two women remained in comfortable silence as each was swallowed up by their own memories—memories of happier times, of normal times shared with people that were once alive and safe.

The door to the house opened and both women turned to see Dale exit the building. He seemed tired and relieved at the same time, which added years to his already aged features.

"Samara, Hershel wants to speak with you." He pointed his thumb behind him.

With a last drag from her cigarette, the marshal tossed it and walked back in the house, the last remnants of her cigarette billowing behind her. She found the old man in the kitchen, now devoid of Maggie and Glenn. They probably scampered off in different directions once Maggie's father was in the area. The man was wiping his hands with a towel and eyeing her thoughtfully when she walked in.

"You said that if I ever needed anythin' I should ask you."

Samara nodded as she leaned against the counter, eager to gain the old man's trust.

"My horse. I need it brought back." He said as he placed the towel back on the hook.

Samara's brow twitched fractionally.

Shit_,_ just what she needed. Run around the forest looking for a goddamn horse.

"Fine." Samara dislodged from the counter and headed back to the exit. She was going to need to talk to the redneck as much as she hated that thought. After that she needed some provisions, probably for till tomorrow. It was already four o'clock and the sun would go down in four hours. She really hoped that she'll find that animal in time before nightfall. Samara was not relishing the thought of spending the night in the woods and like hell she'll get on the back of that crazed horse.

Before she left for his room, she heard the farmer thank her to which Samara answered with a silent nod. Once her face was turned away from him, she rolled her eyes.

_I really hate horses…_

* * *

Samara was frozen in front of the door, one hand razed to knock and the other harshly gripping the terrain map.

She _really_ did not want to speak with the hunter, it was too soon. But she didn't have a choice. The marshal had already asked Grimes where the location was but she needed a more detailed rapport that only could be understood by those like her and Dixon.

With great effort she knocked and gave the hunter a few seconds before entering. The man was lying on the bed, the covers up to his chin like a child. He was holding a bag of ice to his forehead and his head was turned to the door, but once he saw his visitor a dark shadow settled over his expression.

"What the hell do you want?"

Samara sneered. "Well, hello to you too."

Daryl snorted and turned back to face the window, dismissing her.

Suppressing the urge to hurl something at him (preferably the lamp on the nightstand), she crossed the room to the chair by his bedside, aware of his eyes following her. Sitting on the piece of furniture she faced him with a serious expression. She was here on business nothing else and she would try to keep it at that.

"I need you to describe the location where the horse threw you off."

The man appraised her before speaking. "You're gonna go after it."

"The old man asked me to find his horse." She unfolded the map and settled it next to the hunter. "You know, the one _you_ lost." And the one she had to retrieve because of his stupidity.

Daryl rolled his eyes, but begrudgingly described the location. The site wasn't that far away and it was close to areas they had searched so it wouldn't take more than two hours to get there if she ran, Samara calculated. Dixon explained the terrain and what landmarks she had to look for, and then pointed out the direction the horse ran off.

Once finished, the marshal folded the map and stared at his bandages cannily. Daryl immediately went on the defense already knowing what was coming.

"You are one stupid bastard."

"I was wonderin' when you'd start." His eyes narrowed to slits, his voice lowering a few octaves.

She leaned back in the chair, her lips contorting in distaste. "A horse? Really?"

"Like you didn't ride one."

"At least mine didn't throw me off _and_ it was offered to me, I didn't steal it." Her chin tilted up and a small condescending smirk appeared. "Is permission a foreign word in your already short vocabulary?"

Daryl didn't need this right now, he just wanted to sleep and forget the whole day. His head was throbbing something fierce and his whole body was in pain. Her berating voice just added to the ache.

"Leave."

Samara scoffed and rose to her feet. "Gladly."

Daryl shook his head in revulsion when she closed the door more loudly than necessary, no doubt to aggravate him.

_Wretched woman…_


	11. We're Pretty Much Dead Already

**Note:** For all those Rick &amp; Samara fans, you will love this chapter. It's pretty much just the two of them interacting.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

It had taken three hot, sweaty, irritating hours to track down Nelly, as Hershel called the beast. Samara found the horse in a glade not far from the location of the doll, happily foraging. It had been a hassle bringing the horse back because the marshal absolutely refused to saddle it. After what happened to Dixon, she was not stupid enough to get on the anxious beast. So instead, Samara had to drag it back and, of course, the horse had to be uncooperative which resulted in a tug of war with the damn thing. The marshal was seriously tempted to break off a stick and beat the horse with it.

Samara had to trek through the forest at night with only a flashlight to guide her. She would never say it out loud but she had been pretty freaked out. This was how horror movies started—with a woman alone in the woods and monsters just waiting to jump her from behind the trees. And considering the circumstances, the possibility of a monster appearing was all too possible.

Hershel had been grateful once she arrived at the stables with the horse hours later. She was a little bit worse for wear, the horse having refused to budge at one point and Samara slipped in the dirt while trying to make it move. Getting a face full of earth and dead leaves left the Native in a not so happy mood.

She had quickly bathed and crashed on her sleeping bag, unconscious before her head even hit the pillow.

* * *

Samara felt in her clouded semi-conscious mind something shaking her. At first she thought it was just a dream, one of those realistic ones that you experience when half-awake. But when the motions became persistent was when she realized that this wasn't a dream. Her eyes opened to a bleary figure beside her that was speaking unintelligibly.

Shit, she was too tired to wake up properly, but she wasn't alarmed. It was one of the group, the sheriff most likely. Who else would enter the _dragon lady_'s tent? Note the sarcasm.

With a groan, Samara opened her eyes comically wide and it took a minute for her vision to readjust. And like she thought, Grimes was crouched beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

"What is it?" She groggily mumbled.

"We're supposed to go searchin' for Sophia."

"Fuck." Her memory came back from yesterday and she rose her upper body into a sitting position. She was dimly aware that her hair looked like a rat's nest and that her face was probably set in such a way that she resembled a stoner. "Give me half an hour."

The sheriff nodded. "Breakfast is ready for you." And with that he left the tent.

Samara groaned. Her body was still sore from yesterday and her injured hand throbbed from the tug of war with the horse. And she was dead tired.

With a resigned heave, Samara rose to her feet to start her morning ritual.

* * *

Two hours later Samara and Rick were deep in the forest, heading towards the location of the toy's appearance. The hearty breakfast that had been prepared for her had replenished some of her energy, but she was still dragging her feet. Rick had noticed her slouched gait and asked her if she was up to it, but she only waved him off.

They were silent on the way. Samara not in the mood to speak, and Rick was concentrated on the task ahead.

His blue eyes strayed to the woman in front of him for the umpteenth time. He had attempted several times to speak up about the subject he had needed to voice out, but her tiredness kept his words in his throat. He did not want to burden her right now.

It had taken another half an hour to get to the creek, this time they had taken a different route that they only had to skid down a two meter slope. Samara found the area where the doll had been easily, thanks to Dixon's descriptions. They also saw the outlines of two corpses a small distance away. The walkers. Neither wanted to go near them and, so, they were left to rot. Samara made a mental note to never drink from the creek.

Rick crouched over the boulder formation, the shallow water gently coursing around them. "This is where Daryl found the doll. Unless she threw it, which I doubt, it couldn't have been dropped." He raised his head and looked around the location. "This area is too far away from the walls."

Samara nodded and pushed her aviators over her forehead. She observed the stone and earth walls complete with trees and other shrubbery protruding from them. They were a good five meters away on both sides.

Samara sighed and lit up a cigarette. She needed to be calm right now and cigarettes provided that. "There are two scenarios I'm thinking here and all of them involve her being chased by walkers."

Rick nodded as he rose to his feet. "I'm thinkin' the same. That doll was special to her, Carol told me that. Sophia wouldn't have parted with it willingly."

"So, one: she dropped the doll from somewhere up the stream and it washed down and got stuck in the rocks." Samara exhaled a cloud of smoke as her eyes took on a thoughtful sheen. "Two: she dropped the doll from somewhere above the creek and was unable to get to it."

"I don't think she was down here. Even children know not to go runnin' through water, unless…"

"Unless?"

"If she thought it could slow them down, then it's possible."

Whitish-grey smoke escaped from her nostrils. "Doubt it. The creek's depth varies. There's no area the same, but that would support the theory that she was here when the doll disappeared."

Rick saw her train of thought. "She ran through the creek unaware of the depth. Stepped in a deep area and lost hold of the doll. The stream's current washed it down before she could even reach for it."

Samara stepped into the stream and experimented walking in it. It only reached above her ankles, but…"If she tried running after it, the force of the stream would have knocked a scrawny thing like her down with ease."

Rick massaged his brow. The possibility of her drowning now flashed before his eyes.

Unfolding the map, Rick examined the path from the abandoned house to the creek. "If she was at that house you and Daryl found and came upon here, then she would have ended there." His blue eyes returned to the left edge of the valley. "Not down here."

"So we start up there." She then sighed a cloud of smoke and stared at the swirls with a calm gaze. Samara was enjoying this—the routine that came with a lawmen's duty. It almost made everything seem normal again. Her eyes slid to the sheriff with an amused afterthought. She even had a partner that she didn't mind, imagine that.

Her voice picked up again once she noticed the sheriff moving towards the direction the doll may have come from. "The creek goes up for miles, Grimes. And we have no idea which way she went."

"I know what you're sayin'." There was a hint of frustration in his voice and for once it wasn't directed at her, but at the situation at hand. He ran a hand through his hair and breathed in deeply. "After that storm, there's no way to find a track anymore, but maybe she left behind somethin' else. A piece cloth or a shoe."

"If she got caught in some thorny bush, that's possible. But to find that out, we'd have to comb the entire creek ridge and it can't be done by two people." She gave him a knowing look. "Not to mention that with the storm yesterday it could have blown away any other remnants."

Samara took a drag out of her cigarette and exhaled it out forlornly. "We're looking for a small needle in a very large haystack."

"I _can't_ give up, Samara." He needed to find the girl, or at least her body so there could be some closure. It would give Carol and him some peace of mind. And from there, God help them, they could move on.

"I know…" She really did. At this point she knew the sheriff wouldn't give up even if he stopped believing the girl was alive. He was a cop, through and through. She took a last inhale from her cigarette and threw it away in the creek. "So, how do we do this?"

"We search both sides of the creek from here upwards until it ends. And if we have enough time left, we can go downwards."

Samara seriously doubted they would have time for that. The creek spreads out for five miles up, so that would be ten miles until sundown.

She sighed with one eye on the sun_. Joy_.

* * *

It had taken them six hours to walk and search the grounds of those ten miles and by the end they were exhausted and sweaty, the Georgia sun not helping their situation. Their search was unsuccessful, having found nothing but mud and vegetation. Grimes announced that they would continue their search tomorrow with more people. Andrea, T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Daryl when he got better.

Samara and Grimes where on the path towards Hershel's farm when the sheriff started speaking.

"Samara…do you remember when we parted ways in Atlanta?"

The hesitation in his voice caught Samara's interest and she peeked over her shoulder. "Why?"

"You said somethin' to me," Rick licked his sudden dry lips, feeling sweat begin to form on his brow, "about shootin' people in the head…That I'll thank you for it."

The marshal abruptly stopped and slowly turned. Rick could not decipher what she was thinking since the aviators covered half of her face.

"What did you mean by that?" Rick mimicked the marshal and remained rooted in his spot. This was it. He had finally opened the subject that has been weighting on his mind since Sophia disappeared. One that Samara had inadvertently reminded him of.

The marshal remained frozen in her place and her head tilted to the side, resembling a curious bird.

"What do _you_ think I meant by it?"

Rick needed to tell someone, because this was killing him. Out of everyone, he knew that she would take it in stride and not panic. She wouldn't alert the others and make them, in turn, panic. Because what he knew—if it was true—was devastating. It could make anyone loose all hope. And Rick couldn't have that. They needed to survive. His _family_ needed to keep on going, no matter what.

"Before we left the CDC, Jenner told me something. Back then, I didn't believe him or maybe I didn't want to. The man wasn't exactly all up there." A slightly trembling hand wiped his suddenly warm forehead. "But then…at the highway you said somethin' that jogged up my memory. I remembered your advice and I…doubted myself. I started to believe what he told me."

"Which is?" She already knew what this piece of information was. Considering that Grimes told her that the staff opted out inside the CDC, the scientist would have shamed his profession if he couldn't put two and two together.

_Say it, Rick. I will _not_ do it for you._

"He said we're all infected."

Dead silence descended between them, the distant woodland birds the only sound disturbing the stillness of the forest.

Rick hoped that Samara had meant something else, and that he was wrong. That Jenner was wrong.

Samara stood frozen before she slipped the glasses off her face. Rick felt like the world had just got taken from under his feet when he saw the pitying look plastered over her face.

She nodded.

Rick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then another. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling nausea bubble up his throat. The sheriff wasn't even aware that his legs gave out from underneath him when he felt Samara take a hold of his arm to steady him.

The marshal helped him down on the ground and he could faintly hear her speaking over the ringing in his ears.

"Shit, Rick. Calm down."

He was vaguely aware that his chest was rising and lowering far too rapidly and that his breathing was audible and ragged and that his hands were shaking so bad. But he all but ignored them in favor of the throbbing in his head and the heat. God, the heat! He felt like his body was on fire.

"If you don't calm down you're going to pass out!"

Everything. Everything since he found his family again, everything that he had been struggling to keep together was slipping through his fingers like sand. Sophia missing, his son almost dying, Lori pregnant, Shane distancing himself, Hershel not expecting them to stay on the farm, Carol looking at him with those disappointed eyes every time Samara and Daryl returned without her daughter, losing a member of the group almost a day ago. And now…he had to hear that they were pretty much dead already.

Harsh thoughts distorted his mind track, spiraling them down a much darker path. Shane was right. Sophia was dead, had been for a long time. His wife slept with his _supposed_ best friend not _even_ a week after his _friend_ left him for dead in that hospital room. The baby was not his but Shane's and he would have to raise another man's child. He had people that looked up to him for guidance when he had never wanted it from the beginning. He had just wanted to be reunited with his family, not adopt several more.

But the most devastating thought was that Rick believed this was entirely his fault. All these decisions he made have led him here, in the middle of the forest looking for a girl _he_ left behind. His son recovering from an almost fatal gunshot because _he_ allowed him to accompany him in this futile search. Almost losing Daryl because _he_ couldn't accept the fact that the girl was dead. And—

Rick was suddenly startled out of his grim thoughts when he felt cool liquid splash across his face. His eyes popped open in alarm to see Samara holding an opened bottle of water.

"Are you here now?" Samara's severe voice tittered on the edge of a shout.

Another splash and Rick choked. Some of the water got in his nostrils and he started coughing.

—That effectively broke his panic.

"Fuck, Rick." The woman threw the now empty bottle on the ground and patted him on the back.

It took several minutes for his coughing fit to subside and his breathing to return to normal. When his eyes opened, his vision was blurred from his fogged mind and the unshed tears from the coughing.

"If I knew you were going to react like that I would've had the decency to lie." The woman said from her crouched form beside him.

"I'm sorry." He said through a small cough.

"There's nothing to be sorry for. Here."

She held out another bottle that she procured from her small backpack and Rick gladly accepted it. He gingerly drank as to not prompt another fit and to not upset his already agitated stomach. Once he drank half of the bottle, he closed his eyes again and concentrated on his breathing. In and out. In and out.

The dark thoughts receded into the black pits of his mind and the emotions that accompanied them curled back into a tightly knit ball and were thrown along with the equally depressing thoughts.

When he spoke again, it was with a gravelly, choked up voice, showing how much he was trying to reign in his shattered emotions. At their situation. At the unfairness of it all. "How do you know?"

"Trial and error." She smiled weakly. "Almost had a heart attack when the man I shot came back. I couldn't understand it because I checked him and he had no bites. From there, I made my own assumptions…but you pretty much confirmed it right now."

Rick nodded expressionlessly, only just registering her words. His mind was still far away, the dark thoughts lingering at the edge of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him again.

"You're tired." A cool hand tentatively touched his shoulder.

He scoffed emptily. "We're all tired."

"No, I mean you're _beyond_ burned out."

Rick sighed heavily and callous fingers massaged his brow with rhythmic precision. "I just…feel that we are in this mess because of me."

Samara's eyebrows furrowed. The sheriff was blaming himself again.

"After everything that's happened, I don't think there's anyone who could have done anything differently." Samara spoke sincerely. She sat on the ground and stretched her legs so her elbows could rest on her knees. "Nobody could have predicted the barrage of shit headed our way. Hell, I was there and I couldn't have foreseen it either." Her voice lowered taking on a distant tone. "Everything just happened so fast, one after another, that there was never any time to stop and think."

"Maybe…but I should have been more careful—"

"If you think like that, then it's _all_ our faults. You're not the only one that's been a witness to everything, Rick. Stop letting yourself become a waste basket for everyone's problems." Samara popped her knuckles, in disgruntlement. "They're adults. They should solve their own goddamn mess."

He shook his head exhaustedly. "It doesn't work that way, not anymore."

"It doesn't work because _you_ won't let anyone shoulder the burdens. You just take it all onto yourself and look at you now," she nudged his arm with her elbow, "halfway from having a panic attack. How is that good for you?"

"There are some things I can't share with the others." How he wished he could, but it was damn near impossible. He knew how Shane would react to this news—violently. Rick didn't want to see his friend deteriorate further. And Lori…she might just pick up on her thoughts on aborting the baby and the sheriff couldn't blame her if she did. What was the point of bringing new life on this earth if it was already doomed from the start?

"Bullshit." The marshal kicked a twig and some leaves away in frustration. "You have your wife…Shane…hell, try Dixon even. As much as I hate admitting this, he's not dumb." He was actually more understanding than the others—_she_—gave credit to.

Rick sighed and dropped his head in his hands. "I can't talk to Shane. He's…I don't know what the hell is goin' on with him, he's not the same man I knew back in Kentucky." Just how much the Shane Walsh he knew changed just in the span of these few weeks was a shock to Rick and he just _knew_ that it wasn't over yet. And that was what frightened him the most. "As for Lori…No."

"Why?" Samara was confused. From what she's seen so far, Grimes and his wife were tight as a couple. "That's what spouses are for, to support you in times of need."

Rick's shoulders sagged, his exhaustion doubling. "It's complicated. I can't talk to her right now." Not so soon after her multiple betrayals.

Samara's brows furrowed. Something happened between the two Grimes', something serious enough to create a rift judging from Rick's tone. The marshal wasn't sure if she wanted to know what exactly the nature of this rift was. Couple's problems tended to get rather messy and adding an outsider into the equation was inadvisable.

The marshal shifted awkwardly. There were many words on the tip of her tongue that she wanted to convey to the sheriff, but her pride prevented her from appearing soft. So, it was with great difficulty that these next few words came out.

"Just do me a favor…stop overburdening yourself. If you won't do it for your sake, then do it for your family." Samara paused a bit before continuing and her hand returned to his shoulder. "It's not fun seeing you breakdown like that. _Please_."

Samara almost cringed at the surprise registered on the sheriff's face. And surprised he was. For Samara to be _nice_ and say _please_ of all things was something unexpected for the man.

"Careful, you almost sound like you care." Rick was almost amused. Almost. He was still experiencing emotional drainage and attempting to feel anything at this point seemed more like a chore.

"That's because I do."

Pause.

Samara's lips pressed against each other in surprised displeasure. She had not intended to say that, it just blurted out before she even realized it. And the way the sheriff was looking at her wasn't helping—Rick's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline.

Samara sighed, her shoulders slumping. It was finally out—that feeling that has been plaguing her about the sher—Rick. There was only one word that best described what he meant to her.

"I care what happens to _you_. You might not believe this but you are the closest thing I have to a _friend_ these days."

She was being truthful. Rick Grimes was a friend. One that Samara trusted would never leave her behind, not unless he had no other option. And the marshal deeply valued those that she called friends, and remaining on the sideline while they suffer was not something she could stand for, even in these plague-infested days.

"If you…ever need to unburden yourself, talk to me." Samara concentrated on the dirt underneath her fingernails, meanwhile ignoring her heated cheeks. "I might not always care about the topic but at least I'll listen."

Silence followed for at least a minute. The marshal felt too awkward to shift her gaze sideways to the man next to her. A relieved exhale soon followed and Samara could almost feel the pressure lift from around them.

"Thank you." Rick's voice was soft and grateful. "It means a lot to hear you say that."

Green finally clashed with blue and an understanding passed between them. One that provided them both with a sense of the beginning of a deeper connection—one of kinship. And for once Samara did not pull away. She kept her eyes firmly on Rick's and let her emotions guide her, despite the reluctant pull.

Rick was the first to shift his gaze as no other words were needed to be conveyed on the subject. His blue eyes became pensive and distant as he stared into the faded green canopy of the forest.

"I'd like to stay here for a while."

Samara understood his need for some time to himself and left his side. She remained vigil a short distance away, leaning on a thick tree trunk while her eyes surveyed the surrounding area. Danger was still about and Rick was too emotionally drained to care right now, so Samara had to act as the sentinel.

* * *

An hour had passed and the duo remained rooted in place, neither having moved an inch. Samara was smoking a cigarette and watching Rick from the corner of her eye. He looked far older than he actually was, the fatigue making him appear haggard and worn out. And he had lost some weight, but that was to be expected.

Samara still felt slightly put off as she analyzed her conversation with Rick. The marshal wasn't sure if her offer was a good idea or a bad one, and wondered how this will affect the days to come. Of one thing she was certain—everything was changing for her. She was becoming more involved in the affairs of the group. She could have turned down their offers to help them, to participate in their daily tasks, but she didn't. She grumbled and groaned, but she conceded.

It wasn't a sign of weakness, but one of familiarization.

She was gradually becoming a part of them and Samara was heavily weighting the pros and cons of it. The marshal still was of the mind of remaining solo, or with the Greene's if the farmer shooed the Atlanta group off his land. While she held some of the group in some regard, she would not pass an opportunity like the farm. Friendship and the prospect of meat shields only went so far when compared to a roof over her head and food these days.

Rick's boy was becoming healthier by each day and the hick will need a few days to get back on his feet. She wondered how long it will take before Hershel sends the others away. That is, if they even leave. Shane probably had a say in that.

Samara's frown deepened. It would be…_sad_…to see Grimes go. And boring. The Greene's didn't provide that much entertainment, and with their church upbringing and seriously skewed views on recent events, Samara will not be able to snark or express much of her opinions without getting the boot, or worse, a lecture that involved Jesus. Samara never did quite understand why Christians needed to invoke the Son's name in their arguments like it would solve—

"Lori's pregnant."

…everything.

Pause.

Blink.

…_What?_

Samara slowly exhaled the smoke from her lungs and took a deep breath. She repeated the process twice before throwing the remnants of her cigarette away, turning towards Grimes and appraising him shrewdly. While the news explained quite a few things about Lori's general disposition these past few days, it still left Samara astonished and repulsed.

"There are still condoms left in this world, you know." Samara winced when her failed attempt at sarcasm was shot down in flames by the vacant stare of the sheriff's. "Shit…"

Any other bite she had quickly evaporated in favor of this new development. _A baby…_

Samara cringed. _Well...fuck._

This was a bad situation. A baby meant noise. Noise meant attracting walkers and walkers equaled death. Not to mention the many requirements a baby needed. They were worse than drunken teenage drama-queens.

Samara ran a hand through her hair in frustration. "How far along is she?"

"A month, give or take."

Samara blinked and then frowned as she saw that the math was off. The sheriff had found his wife only over three weeks ago, he couldn't have impregnated—

Her eyes widened as a certain detail trickled into her calculations.

"_I'm the one that loses you."_

That was what Shane told Lori back at the church when they thought they were out of everyone's earshot.

Oh.

_Oh…_

"It's not yours."

A peculiar shadow passed over Rick's face before he averted his gaze. He remained silent as he decided on his next words. "Shane and Lori, they…" The sheriff paused before sighing resignedly. "My wife thought I was dead."

_That's not exactly the best excuse_…Samara's husband has been dead for three months now and she did not feel the need to jump someone's bones.

"I'm not even gonna ask you how you knew that." Blue eyes appraised her for a second before returning to the surrounding vegetation.

Samara shrugged slightly. She couldn't help what she heard, but sometimes she wished she did.

The marshal watched the seated man with interest. He did not seem any different, still weary and jaded but now with an added extra weight on his shoulders. Samara only now realized how much he had been internalizing. She really was surprised he didn't sprout gray hairs or grew wrinkles.

"What will you do?"

Blue eyes hardened to steel. "That baby is _mine_."

Samara decided not to continue with that train of discussion. The sheriff's tone seemed final.

"Does _he_ know?"

"Except for myself, Glenn and now you, no one else knows."

_Glenn? _Samara's brow hitched up in surprise before searching through her memory for any out of the ordinary behavior from the young Korean man. The only one she came up with was the trip to the town a few days ago. He had clung to his backpack rather forcefully in her opinion. At first she had thought he found something embarrassing to be seen by others, but now…

Samara reached into her pant pocket and produced another cigarette. After the first exhale of smoke, she asked "Rick…what do you think Shane will do when he finds out?"

The man shook his head. "There's nothin' he can do. He has no claims over _my_ child. You said it yourself once, there are no more laws anymore. I don't have to follow old rules."

"He might not see it as you do. Shane doesn't give me the impression of someone who would back down."

Rick nodded vaguely, aware of the truth to her statement.

"You know this isn't good, right?"

Whenever she was referring to Shane or the baby, it didn't matter. Neither situation was good. "I know what havin' a baby means at this point and it won't change my mind. That baby's gonna come into this world and we're gonna deal with it when it happens."

"_We_?"

"You know what I mean…"

The smirk faded into a grim line as Rick voiced out his next question.

"If you were in Lori's place…what would you do?"

Samara remained stone faced as she searched for the right answer and it came with swiftness and great clarity. "I would get rid of it. There's no place for a baby right now."

Rick nodded, already having anticipated her answer. "Thought so."

The marshal took a drag out of her cigarette as she mentally questioned why he would want her opinion of something of that nature. But what really sent alarm bells in her brain was why in the hell would he ask her to place herself in his wife's shoes unless—

Samara's eyes widened as it clicked. "Don't tell me…Lori…She…"

"She tried. Took a handful of pills that Glenn got her, but she threw them up. She said she knew it was a mistake from the moment she swallowed them, but..." His voice took on a ragged tone again. "She still took 'em."

"I don't blame her." Samara snorted and ignored the sheriff's withering glare. "You're not a woman, Rick. You don't understand what it means to have a child. To carry one for nine months, praying that nothing goes wrong along the way. And considering the present circumstances…"

"And because of that I don't have a say in it?"

Samara gave him a pointed stare. "Rick, you're not even the father." A cloud of smoke escaped her nostrils and the marshal didn't even have the decency to pull back her punches. "Try to see it from your wife's point of view. She's pregnant with a child whose father she isn't sure in a time that procreation is unadvisable. I'm not surprised she chose the easy way out. What I _am_ surprised about is that she didn't go through with it."

"Not everyone shares your backbone." Rick said in slight spite.

"Backbone…" Samara huffed in dark humor. "I don't think I would call it that." She smoked the last remnants of her cigarette and threw the stub away. "Why do you even want it considering everything?"

Rick ran a hand over his face, wiping the sweat away from his brow. "Samara…have you ever had children?"

Samara paused before she snorted gruffly. "Do I seem motherly to you?"

"No. But you're not the only one who listens." Her response back when he and Lori had asked for her help to search for Shane had remained with Rick. And what she said just a few moments ago about mothers… "Have you?"

Rick almost lost hope that Samara would answer when he finally heard her speak. Her voice seemed sharper than usual. "That doesn't matter. Right now, what counts is you and your dilemma. My advice is: get rid of it. It's not going to change your life or repair the problems between you and your wife. It's just going to worsen it."

"You'd think that, but I don't." Rick shook his head as he rose to his feet, tired of sitting in the same place for over an hour and more than weary of stewing in his thoughts much less holding a conversation. He was ready to return back to camp. "This baby is gonna change everythin'. _That_ I am aware of. Good or bad, or both. But it will give my family and the others somethin' to look forward to in this hell. Somethin' that doesn't remind them that we're all hangin' by a thread."

Everything that had been eating the sheriff he finally had the chance to let it out and he almost felt lighter. There were still dark clouds hovering about, but not as bad as before. Talking really did work…

Rick peeked at the woman beside him. He was really grateful that Samara listened and even put in her two cents. Talking to her felt easier, mostly because she took everything in stride and knew better than to create panic. At times, he needed someone like that to clear his head. But it also felt better because she _was_ a stranger to him. He had known Shane and Lori since they were in high-school—he knew all their ticks, but Samara…she was an anomaly that, surprisingly, suited him just fine. The marshal was not an easy person, not by a long shot. They argued and their views almost never coincided, but Rick still felt more comfortable talking to her than with Shane. The sheriff could see that Samara was gradually becoming more open towards him. Why, he did not know, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

"You think it will make them happy that there's going to be a new addition to your group?" The marshal seriously doubted that. At least for some.

"It's worth the risk." Rick stepped past her and Samara followed.

"And if the baby dies? What then?"

Rick didn't even pause in his step. "It won't."

Samara spat on the ground and threw a glare at the man's back. "Idealistic fool!"

"And you're too cynical for your own good."

"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about!" She hissed like a snake. With each word, her body heated with suppressed rage. "It won't survive in this world. You don't know what it means to—"

"Samara." Rick stopped in his tracks and turned towards her. No longer did he look haggard and guilt ridden, but solid in his decision—like the sheriff he was. "Stop tryin' to talk me out of it. I already made up my mind. Lori's made up her mind."

Rick took one last look over the yellowing canopy. He never did like autumn—everything fading around him. Rick found it morbid and, unfortunately, it suited his train of thought perfectly. "We will all die one day, Samara. It's inevitable." Like leaves in autumn dying out through winter. "What matters is what we do between that time and what we leave behind to the people that matter."

"…What's there to leave behind?"

Rick sighed as he started walking again. "And that's where we differ…"

Samara watched him go with narrowed eyes. Why is it that no one ever listened to her? It wasn't like she was talking out of her ass.

With a sigh and heavy steps, she followed the sheriff.

Thank the gods the group won't be around long enough for her to see the child come into this world. That was a drama she did not need.

* * *

Once they reached the edge of the forest and the camp was in sight, Rick stopped. Samara followed suit, but did not speak. She had been silent for the reminder of their journey as there was no point in arguing with an unmovable mountain and partially because she was still rather piqued.

Rick watched the miniature figures of his group wander around camp before turning towards the marshal. The determined look in his blues straightened Samara's back.

"The others can't know that we're infected."

He had a point, the marshal conceded. Creating panic won't help either of them, but…"They'll have to know sometime."

"Just not now. Not when we finally have somethin' good for ourselves." _However long that lasts…_

Samara shrugged as she lit up a cigarette. This wasn't her problem. "Your group, your call."

* * *

Samara leaned against on the giant trees on the farm, smoking a cigarette. It was close to midnight and the marshal was dead tired.

After arriving back at camp, things progressed as usual. Carol retreated back into the RV as there was no news on her daughter's whereabouts and the others went about their business as if already having anticipated the unsuccessful search. Samara had visited Hershel for a check-up on her back and hand. There was only an uncomfortable feeling left in her back and her palm stung every now and then, but the farmer informed her that it was to be expected. He had also told Samara that Alistair was improving and that in a day or so she could take the bandages off.

Samara stretched her arms over her head and yawned. Tomorrow was going to be another busy day of searching and she had no motivation to. What was the point anymore?

Her back straightened once low voices reached her ears. The marshal watched as the forms of Glenn and Maggie came from the direction of the barn, whispering harshly to one another. She couldn't hear what they were talking about from this distance, but she could hear the unhappiness in Glenn's tone and the cutting one in Maggie's.

Samara watched as Maggie stopped him once they got too close to camp and with another few words she departed for the house. Glenn stood there unmoving before kicking a patch of dirt and heading towards the tents, mumbling something under his breath. As he came closer, Samara noticed the pillow and blanket in his hand.

_Ah…_

_A lover's spat._

"Late night stroll?"

Glenn stopped abruptly, almost jumping out of his sneakers. There, in the shadows, was a figure with only a small portion of their face illuminated by a burning cigarette. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was Samara. That still didn't alleviate his sudden anxiety.

"Oh. Hey, Samara. Yeah, I'm just taking a small walk before going to bed. It helps." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "What about you? You're still up. I thought everyone went to sleep."

"They did." Samara took a drag from her cigarette and narrowed her eyes on him. Her voice took on a lawman's severity used when interrogating. It was done in jest to see the jumpy Korean's reaction. "Do you usually take walks with a blanket and pillow?"

Glenn looked at the objects in his hands then at the marshal and his anxiety doubled. "Uh…no. I just got them. To sleep, you know."

Samara nodded with a deceptively innocent expression. "From the barn? With Maggie?"

There was a long pause in which Glenn didn't move, but if it had been daylight, Samara would have seen the sweat forming on his brow. The young man shuffled his feet as if about to bolt. "Uh. I—Uh."

The marshal always got a twisted sense of satisfaction from seeing perpetrators sweat. How they tripped over their two feet, got tongue tied and their stories became a jumbled mess. While Glenn wasn't being interrogated, it was still funny.

"Just be more discreet next time. Don't let Hershel catch you." She smoked the last of her cigarette and threw it away. "And wear a condom. We don't need _another_ addition here."

Even with the darkness around them, Samara just knew that he was blushing ten shades of red.

"Thanks. I will—I mean, I am." Pulling his cap over his eyes, he rushed to his tent. In his edginess, Glenn did not even register the last part in Samara's sentence.

Samara shook her head as she watched the young man scurry off to his tent. The last thing they needed right now was one of the group rolling in the hay with the farmer's daughter, as if they didn't have enough trouble.

Glenn's dick was going to get the whole lot of them in trouble.


	12. Suffer the Little Children

**Note: **Greetings and pre-Merry Christmas to all**! **I guess it's taken less than a month to update this time, which is very good for all you readers out there. Hopefully, I'll update somewhere in January.

I see that a lot of people support the Rick-Samara thing, but to tell the truth I'm not so sure anymore how this story will go romance wise. I have options to pick but fuck if I know when it will happen considering Samara's tendencies. It would be hard to kindle a fire between Samara and Daryl, but easier between her and Rick. Unfortunately, I like the hard way. It makes things more interesting.

But as I said, nothing's definite yet. It could be both! (sarcasm)

To **bridgetlynn**: Thank you for the introspective review! While getting told that my fic is 'omg, so good' (it strokes my ego, can't help it), it is better to get a thought-out assessment that actually has meaning. I understand your frustration, Samara has her moments of, let's say, not-so-thought-out-plans. Samara is a leader of sorts, so doing things her way are what she likes and going against that brings out her bitchy side. And yes, while she does know that safety is in numbers, she is capable of surviving on her own and staying with a group is more of a back-up. Samara has already assessed that the Atlanta group is too volatile so remaining with them is just her way of keeping a social life and not going bonkers from loneliness. And it's not that she can't work with them, more like she doesn't want to because of their viewpoints (it's pretty hard to work with someone you're not on the same page with, I've experienced it first-hand). Like you said, the group outnumbers her so attempting to make them see her way is downright impossible. The woman has a long way to go and there is still a lot of story left to tell. I eagerly await further reviews from you, dear reader.

To **Daydreamer123**: Out of all my two stories, I also like 'I Walk the Line' better. I think I wrote it better because I had more leeway and the words just flowed out of me. Having to adhere to canon facts and timeline is exhausting because there's not much you can write in between.

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

The next morning, Samara, Shane, Rick and Jimmy were gathered around a terrain map, discussing the grids they were going to search. There was a moment with Glenn in which he acted odder than usual, but the others chalked it up to him just being his normal self.

Rick had decided that T-Dog and Jimmy would go with him while Glenn with Samara. It was only the five of them today as Shane and Andrea were going to search a housing development nearby.

Before Samara departed with the others, she approached Dixon's tent. There was something she needed to give back to the hick that could not wait any longer lest she burn it.

Daryl was interrupted from his reading when his tent flap flew open. His unannounced guest extinguished his mood like water on fire. "What the hell do you want?"

Samara simply threw the offending object at him. "I believe these are yours."

Daryl raised his head and observed the grey clumps that landed on his chest. It was the geek ears. He actually forgot about them.

"And just to be clear, you're pretty fucked up to cut ears off of walkers much less make a necklace out of them." Samara narrowed her eyes on him arrogantly. "If you really wanted some _bling_, you can just walk into a house and take some. The owners won't mind."

Daryl rose up into a sitting position on his cot and threw the ears somewhere in his tent. He mirrored the marshal's aggravated expression. "I don't want to hear you callin' me that when you're crazier than I am."

The Native scoffed. "At least I don't cut off anatomical parts off of the undead, you hick. Is this some hillbilly way of assuming your position on the hierarchy?" Samara then lowers her voice and starts thumping her chest like a gorilla. "Me redneck. Me kill walker. Me take trophy. Walkers will know better than to fuck with me now."

Daryl remained motionless and watched the silly display with flat eyes. "You look like an idiot."

Samara stopped her antics and scowled foully.

"Now, get the hell out." He motioned to the exit.

While a sharp retort just stood on the tip of her tongue, her conversation with Rick on her standing with Daryl came to the forefront of her mind and curbed her tongue. It wasn't because she didn't want to verbally abuse the hick, but more because she had somewhat agreed not to instigate further quarrels with Dixon and, frankly, she was starting to get tired of it. And so she backed off to the surprise of the redneck.

Daryl watched in confusion as the woman actually listened and started to exit his tent. Before she could leave, he shouted after her. "And keep that dog of yours on a leash. Damned mutt's been botherin' me since last mornin'." More like harassing him with the way he kept following and tugging on his pants.

Without another word, Samara placed her aviators over her eyes and departed. Rick was standing with T-Dog, Jimmy, Glenn and Carl at the edge of the camp. Once the duo joined the others, Carl turned on Samara.

"Hey, Samara. Can I play with Alistair?"

"Sure, go crazy." The marshal spotted the dog a few meters away from the barn, watching it rather still. "Just don't exhaust him."

"I won't. Thanks!" With a small smile the boy ran off in Alistair's direction.

With one last look, Samara took the lead as they headed out into the forest. Rick was right beside her while Glenn, Jimmy and T-Dog remained a few paces behind.

"I'm surprised I didn't hear any shoutin' between you and Daryl."

"So am I."

"Does that mean you're ready to forgive and forget?"

Samara paused before answering. "…Not yet."

Rick sighed. "I swear, sometimes you're like a child."

Samara gave him an incredulous look that could be seen through the dark tint of her sunglasses. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Brawlin', sulkin', uncooperative…stubborn beyond reason." The sheriff threw a knowing gaze. "Does that sound like an adult to you?"

Samara shrugged. "I am stubborn; I'm not going to lie about that. As for the others…I guess without society, I'm more my old self." The marshal service had inhibited a lot of her character. So much red tape and rules of conduct and other bullshit had her restraining herself more often than she liked. The army had had its rules, but back then she only had to fly in and out. No questions asked.

But now, without laws and rules she had to stick too so not to offend anyone or get in trouble, Samara felt like a ton of weight was off her shoulders.

_I guess it takes an apocalypse for people to be their real selves…_

"I'm not a child, Rick."

"Sometimes you act like one."

Samara's head turned towards him and her greens appraised him intensely. Rick caught her gawk and made a 'what' motion with his eyebrows. The marshal shook her head and grunted.

"…I hate it when you do that."

Rick's brows rose even higher as he did not understand. "What?"

"Lecture me." The Native said grouchily. "You sound so much like my father, it's disturbing."

The sheriff almost paused in his step in his surprise. Then a small chuckle escaped from deep within his chest. "Your father was a wise man then."

"That he was."

The chuckled died down and his earlier seriousness returned. "Seriously now, solve this conflict with Daryl."

Samara grimaced. "Why are you so hung up on it? You don't see me egging you on about Shane."

"Because you already have too few people that give a damn." Mainly him…and the dog.

"And you think Dixon will give a damn if I apologize and make nice with him?" The marshal snorted in doubt. Walkers will go on a vegan diet when that happens.

Silence was her answer and when Samara turned to see if the sheriff either got left behind or suddenly went deaf, instead she noticed a contemplating look plastered over his face. The marshal was seconds away from just ignoring him when realization dawned.

"So that's it…You just don't want to apologize." Rick said in disbelief before giving her a pointed look. "That's called bein' juvenile."

Samara's eyes widened and she gaped slightly. _Unbelievable…_

With a huff, the woman continued on her way. Gritting her teeth, she answered rather begrudgingly. "Alright, fine. I hate apologizing, even if it's _partially_ my fault. I'm not built that way."

"Admittin' that you're in the wrong is not a weakness."

"It's not a strength either."

"I don't think it matters anymore, Samara." Rick sighed. "There are already too few of us. Holdin' grudges is just stupid when we should be helpin' each other."

The marshal snickered. "Oh, Rick…you still have so much to learn."

"So do you apparently."

Neither of them realized that much of their conversation was overheard by the other three search party participants. Glenn and T-Dog eyed each other as the lawmen talked. They were surprised how comfortable Samara appeared to be compared to her usual self and even more so at how the exchange flowed so easily between Rick and her. It made them wonder why she changed moods when around Rick…

* * *

Several hours later, the search group returned to camp empty handed. Samara hadn't implicated herself a hundred percent, but just went with the motions.

After a shower and some food, the marshal seated herself on the front porch and lazily observed the camp. Carl was playing fetch with Alistair, or at least trying to. The Collie seemed reluctant to play as his attention seemed to always return to the barn. Samara watched as the boy threw the stick in the building's general direction. Alistair complied, but did not return. He remained rooted in front of the barn's doors and that's when Samara's heart skipped a few beats.

Alistair's back arched and his ears flattened on his head.

—That was his way of saying danger was nearby…That walkers were near.

"Hey, Alistair! Come back!" The moment Carl started walking towards the dog was when Samara jumped from the porch and almost ran to intercept the boy. With a hand on his shoulder, she stopped him.

"Kid, stay here. I'll get him."

"I don't know why he does that." Carl said as he frowned at Alistair's strange behavior.

"You've seen him do it before?"

"He's been doing it since yesterday mornin'. I was playin' fetch with him when he started. He just sits in front of the barn all day."

_Yesterday…Didn't Dixon say Alistair's been bothering him since yesterday?_ The dog was afraid of the hunter; he wouldn't willingly approach him unless it was something urgent.

"Playtime's over. Scram." Samara shooed the boy away which he wasn't too happy about, but he reluctantly obeyed.

After making sure Carl was a safe distance away, Samara calmly walked towards the canine, her breath audible and her palms clammy. The marshal could hear her heart beating and it was more deafening than any gunshot. Peeking over her shoulder, the Native didn't see anyone watching her excursion. Stopping next to the mutt, Samara patted him on the head, not oblivious to the amount of chains and padlocks placed on the barn doors. Nobody needed that much security for a worn-out old building unless they were hiding something valuable.

"What's wrong?"

Alistair whined lowly and looked at her with wide eyes. He started walking back and forth between her and the barn, his eyes pleading.

Samara nodded slowly and with a deep breath said the words she dreaded the most.

"Alistair…Find wendigos."

The Collie moved forward and sniffed the barn doors. The dog stopped and then scratched the ground. He knew better than to scratch the doors. Samara's eyes closed and a weight heavier than a boulder settled in the pit of her stomach. With weary steps, Samara approached the shabby red barn. The moment she got close enough she froze as her blood curled at _that_ sound.

—It was a groan.

Not the kind caused by ecstasy, but one that she had become all too familiar with in the past months. She approached the hangar and rounded up on the barn not wanting to be seen by the others if they happened to look towards the building. That was when the smell hit her. It wasn't strong at a distance, but once you got closer you could, without a doubt, sense it. The putrid stench of the undead.

She peered through the thin space between the wooden planks to be absolutely sure, and backed away immediately. There was movement inside the barn. Not just any movement, but the shuffling, rocking motions of walkers. She approached once again, this time with her small pocket flashlight and she could see them now—a dozen of them, silently swaying, pale eyes looking out unfocused, chunks of flesh missing. Samara backed away immediately when one of them turned its head towards her.

—There were walkers in the barn.

Samara ran a hand over her face in disbelief. There was no possible way Greene didn't know about this. How could a dozen flesh-eaters just waltz inside a barn and not be aware of it? There had to be a reason they were inside.

What the hell was she supposed to do now? Samara felt at a loss. She couldn't just go blabbing off to the group, they would panic and, out of them all, Shane would most likely do something that would get all of them kicked off the farm. She could tell Rick, but she needed to talk with Hershel to hear his reason for this madness. They were living just a few meters from goddamn flesh-eating undead with only a padlock keeping them separated.

But first, there was someone she needed to talk to.

Her gaze returned to the camp and zeroed on a young Korean man.

_Glenn…_

* * *

Glenn was startled when someone grabbed his arm rather forcefully and pulled him away from his work.

"Walk with me. Act normal and don't create a scene." Samara hissed in his ear. Alistair walked alongside her, his ears flat on his head.

"Whatever I did to you, I'm really sorry. I promise to never do it again." Glenn said rapidly, his nerves already flaring up.

"Shut up, idiot! What I want to know is, when you were out last night rolling in the hay with Maggie, did you notice anything out of the ordinary?"

Glenn almost tripped over his two feet. He tried to appear calm and collected, but only managed to confirm Samara's suspicions. "…As in?"

The Native stopped at a safe distance from the people around camp and rounded up on him. "Oh, I don't know. How about a putrid stench? Some guttural groaning? Possibly a dozen undead ravening cannibals that aren't opposed to taking a bite out of Maggie's ass? And yours for that matter."

Glenn stood like a rabbit in the headlights before grimacing. _Busted_. "…Shit."

"Shit is right, my friend. Explain, now."

Glenn took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his brow. "Okay, look. I didn't know they were in the barn until last night. Trust me, I was more freaked out than you think. I was _inside_! Maggie practically threatened me not to tell anyone."

"Gods, Glenn. Grow a pair." The boy really needed to toughen up. "What was her explanation?"

"She didn't tell me anything, just to trust her." Samara could hear that he wasn't happy about it. Who would be?

Samara had an inkling as to the girl's reason and it pertained to a discussion Samara and the sisters had in regards to the virus. "Who else in camp knows?"

"Dale."

_Damn._ Samara just knew the old man won't stay put and talk to someone. "When did you tell him?"

"About two hours ago."

Samara nodded. Like her, Dale's first thought would be to know Hershel's reason. She wouldn't be surprised if they already talked. With a pointed look towards Glenn, she gave him a small warning. "Keep your mouth shut."

The young man nodded and placed his cap back over his head. Without another word, he returned to his chores.

Samara watched him leave and doubted Glenn would keep quiet for long. The jumpy ones were always the worst. With a look around camp, she spotted the old man by the grill and walked up to him in determination, the dog following her obediently. She needed to resolve this one way or the other.

"Have you spoken to Hershel?"

Dale looked up from the sizzling meat and knew from the steely glint in her eyes that she was also aware of the secret. "You know."

Samara nodded with a grim look. "Did you?"

"I did." Dale's eyes moved over the farm. "He thinks they're still people, that they're only sick."

The marshal rolled her eyes in annoyance. "I'm well aware of that. But to keep them locked up like animals is right in the _crazy_ area."

"I know, but…" A forlorn mist settled over his eyes. "His wife and stepson are in there."

Samara paused for a second. Incredulity caused her brows to rise almost to her hairline. While she had seen people cave in when confronted by a loved one turned into a wendigo, it still didn't mean that—"Dale, if you had family that had been bitten would you keep them around like pets?"

Dale sighed. He understood Hershel's need to hold on onto the last remnants of his loved ones. He had done the same when his wife died. Figuratively speaking. What kind of person wouldn't want to just shut his eyes and ears to the truth, that they're loved ones were never going to be the same—that they were ravenous undead.

"You have to understand that they haven't had contact with the rest of the world since the virus broke out." Dale tried to explain. "How many walkers have you seen around since we got here?"

The man brought his hands up in a placating gesture at the sharp look sent his way.

"I'm just sayin' they haven't seen what they're capable of doin'."

Samara exhaled loudly and ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation. Living just a few meters away from walkers was absolutely ridiculous. Then, an idea hit her like a tidal wave—Were they feeding them? Like some fucked up version of farm animals? What _exactly_ were they feeding them?

_Maybe it's a healthier to stick with the group…_

"This is insane."

Dale nodded and placed his hand on her shoulder. Samara shook it off as she had no patience for his fatherly tendencies. "I understand that you're frustrated, but this is his land. We don't have a say in it."

Samara took one last look at the barn and turned to leave. Their conversation was over.

"Are you gonna tell Rick?" Dale shouted after her.

Samara nodded. "You can't ignore something like this. And not a word to the others. Not yet at least."

* * *

Samara found the sheriff sitting on the porch overlooking the field with a faraway gaze. Where his mind was, it wasn't here. The present was the last thing on his mind judging by his peaceful expression. Rick's attention snapped to the present with a start when the marshal and her dog stepped into his field of vision. The solemn air around the woman alerted him that there were problems about—something big enough to disturb the marshal.

"What's wrong?" Rick got up and climbed down the steps.

Samara's eyes darted to the house and then back. Rick understood that their conversation wasn't for the other's ears. He walked along with her and Alistair as they headed away from the farmhouse.

"Hershel apparently forgot to inform us that we are not the only guests he has on his property." With a deep breath, she dropped the twenty kiloton bomb on the man. "His barn is full of walkers."

Rick didn't move for a good few seconds and when he did, a look of disbelief mixed with horror appeared. Chills rolled down his spine as he mentally pictured the image of undead flesh-eaters in the old red barn.

"What?"

"You heard me. The old bastard herded walkers onto his property and is keeping them like pets with only some chains locking them in."

Rick's gaze turned to the barn and he felt his throat clog up. "How did you find out?"

"Alistair." Samara motioned to the canine at her feet. There was a pressure in her brain that could only be from the mild form of shock she was still experiencing. "Glenn and Dale also know. I told them to keep quiet, but I don't know how long that's going to last."

Rick nodded and his blues iced over. Gone was his shock, he needed his mind clear and his will strong. Without another word, he walked back to the house in search of the older man. They needed to talk this over. He couldn't have danger this close to his family.

Samara watched him hawkishly. She did not need to ask where he was going as it was rather obvious. Alistair whined lowly in his throat and the marshal scratched him behind the ears. She swore, it was one thing after the other here.

Uneasy green eyes unconsciously moved to the barn. It was going to take a while for her to become accustomed to this new development. One way or the other, this situation won't end peacefully.

* * *

The marshal sat on the rocking chair smoking a cigarette as Alistair slept at her feet. She envied the mutt's ability to sleep even through a crisis. There were cigarette buds littered all over the wooden porch. The way she was going through her last pack, it was going to be empty in another half hour.

With the sunglasses on, nobody could see the way her eyes bored holes into the barn. In the last twenty minutes, Samara hadn't removed her gaze from the walker infested building not even for a minute. While you couldn't see it on the outside, the marshal was a ball of nerves on the inside.

The door to the house squeaked open and Rick appeared. He looked more fatigued than ever and Samara just knew that the discussion didn't go in his favor.

"What did he say?"

Rick sighed and shook his head, the conversation still circling in his mind. "Nothin's final yet."

"In other words, he's pissed."

"He wants us gone by the end of the week." Rick looked over the camp and his ever vigilant gaze settled on his pregnant wife and son. They looked so happy as they fed the chickens and Rick just knew that this new discovery and Hershel's last words were going to devastate them. "We can't leave. Not with Lori…I can't put my family in danger like that again."

"You might not have a choice in this." Samara finished her cigarette and crushed it under her heel.

Rick's attention snapped to her and appraised her attentively. "You mean _we_."

A small devious smirk appeared. "No, I mean you and your people. I'm secure here."

Once the cogs turned and the sheriff finally put two and two together, he laughed. It wasn't funny, just incredulous. "You made a deal with him. Of course…"

"I look after myself first and foremost." The woman shrugged. "These people are my safety blanket and Hershel was foolish enough to accept my offer."

"I guess it never occurred to you to try and talk him into lettin' all of us stay."

Samara looked strangely at him. "Why would I think that? Your group is a time-bomb and I'm not sticking around to see it detonate."

Rick shook his head and leaned against the wooden post of the railing. His gaze took on that faraway look again as he watched over the fields. Samara observed him from the corner of her eyes.

"You know…" The Native's voice brought him out of his stupor, "I sat here and thought over this whole situation. While I still think we should open those doors and hack away at the bastards, a part of me thinks it's better to leave them there."

The sheriff gave her an incredulous look.

"Think about it." Samara leaned in the rocker and laced her fingers together. "This must be the reason why we haven't seen any walkers around the property. Their stench is covering our scent and keeps the others at bay. Put a few extra chains on those doors and have the watch keep an extra eye on the barn and it's alright."

"It's not gonna work." Rick crossed his arms over his chest and mulled over the idea, but once his blues slid sideways towards the barn—"I don't think I can sleep at night knowin' those things are there."

"Yeah..." Samara sighed as she joined the sheriff in his watch. Once, that barn was just another shabby old building that couldn't hurt you unless you hanged yourself by its rafters, but now…it was a grim sight that conjured fear deep into your belly. "Believe me, the only thing on my mind right now is that barn. I can't stop looking at it."

Both lawmen's attention snapped to when the distant rumble of an engine reached their ears. They watched as Shane's car appeared on the dirt road, growing larger with each second until it stopped at the edge of the camp. Shane and Andrea stepped out of the car and were greeted by Carol and Dale. The two women left the presence of the men and were heading towards the house at a leisure pace.

"When are you going to tell them?"

"Soon."

The marshal observed the way the two men talked and judging from their body posture, something was wrong. "This won't end well."

"I believe you." Rick said remotely as he was concentrated on the peculiarity of the two men's interaction. The sheriff then returned his attention back to the Native. "Samara, if things go sideways, I'm gonna need your help in keepin' this under control."

Samara's eyes slid towards the two men again. The conversation seemed to have ended as Shane walked away. His walk was tense and his tick was back in full-force. That wasn't a good sign.

"Sure, you can count on me."

Rick nodded in gratitude and lapsed into silence as Carol and Andrea drew within hearing distance.

* * *

Samara was patiently observing as Hershel took the stitches out of her palm. They were in the kitchen, seated at the table. The injury had healed just fine, leaving only a pinkish coarse skin. It was disturbing and strangely calming to watch the thin black wires come out of her skin. Maybe so much death and gore had made her a sadist…

Her revelry was broken by Hershel's deep Southern twang, "I'm guessin' you are also aware of the barn?"

"Yes." She answered truthfully and without second thought. There was no reason to lie to the old man.

"Are you gonna try and change my mind on it?"

"No. As long as those _people_ stay inside and secure, I don't have a problem."

This time he did pause and observed the Native carefully for any signs of deceit. When he found none, he continued with his work. "You're more reasonable than I thought."

"I figure I'm the last person who could change your mind, so I'm not even going to try. Besides, it's your barn, your land."

She didn't like this situation. Not one bit. But she had to go with the flow if she wanted to remain here.

They lapsed into silence again and Samara's eyes remained glued to the stitches. In and out. In and out. Once her skin was finally free of the material she flexed her fingers and stretched her palm experimentally. She still couldn't use it a hundred percent, but it would do.

Samara watched the farmer as he disposed of the stitches and cleaned his hands at the sink.

"Is our deal still on?" She needed to know. If it wasn't because of the barn, then she'd have to remain with the group. And that meant she would have to put an extra effort to cooperate with them.

"As long as you don't cause any trouble."

Internally, Samara was happy as a clam. She was secure.

That is as long as those putrid fucks remain in the barn.

* * *

The rest of the day proceeded lazily and before Samara knew it, day turned into night and night into morning. The marshal had kept her machete at her waist and a concealed gun in her boot. With her newfound knowledge, her self-preservation would not allow her to remain without some sort of protection. Dale, Glenn, Rick and Samara had all been on high alert throughout the day and night. Samara had even taken the night shift along with Alistair, not trusting anyone else with the task. Gods forbid if those padlocks came off and the cannibals roamed free while everyone was asleep.

As such, everyone was greeted to a rather grouchy Samara in the morning. Some found it odd that she hadn't woken Shane up for his half of the night shift, but the Native waved it off as her forgetting to.

Everyone was gathered around the camp fire as they ate their morning meal. Even Dixon joined them, instead of remaining at the edge like always. Naturally, he sat the farthest away from the marshal but that was to be expected.

—Of course, a relative peaceful morning was when Glenn found it the best opportune moment to divulge _the_ secret.

"Guys…"

Samara immediately knew that this was the boy's limit in holding in important knowledge. She glared at him viciously but the Korean's resolve only waivered slightly. While Dale was glad for this, Rick was not. It was too soon and he had not thought on how to handle this situation. As the supposed leader, he had wanted to break it to the others but on his own terms, but it seems it was taken out of his hands as Glenn continued—

"The barn is full of walkers."

That set off a chain reaction. Everyone, except for those already knowing, froze in their respective positions. Eyes almost simultaneously flew towards the barn and Samara could see the old horror and fear in them. The same ones she saw at the Wiltshire estates.

—There was no turning back from here.

Shane was the first that moved towards the barn. That set off the others and soon everyone was following him before Rick could even stop them.

Samara and the dog remained behind the group and watched as Shane approached the doors. Not even a few seconds passed before he backed away, disgusted and angry. The others all hanged back, fearing to approach the barn and seeing with their own eyes the truth.

"You cannot tell me you're all right with this." Shane said to Rick as he returned to the fold.

"No I'm not, but we're guests here. This isn't our land."

Shane threw his hands up in the air in frustration. He just couldn't believe that they have all been living for the past two weeks just a few meters away from a dozen or so walkers and not even know it. "This is our lives!"

"Lower your voice." Glenn hissed at him with one eye on the farm house. Maggie will kill him for this…

"We can't just sweep this under the rug." Andrea added as she clutched at her crossed arms. Despite the heat of the day, goosebumps were all over her arms and she wasn't feeling the least bit warm. "It ain't right. Not remotely."

"Okay, we've either got to go in there, make things right or we've just got to go." Shane spoke as he rounded up on his friend. "Now we have been talkin' about fort Benning for a long time—"

"We can't go." Rick interrupted him in frustration.

The man narrowed his eyes in displeasure and growing annoyance. "Why, Rick? Why?"

"Because my daughter is still out there." Carol intervened as it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Shane almost laughed in disbelief. Luckily, he had half a mind to restrain himself in time. "I think it's time that we all start to consider the other possibility."

_And this is where it starts…_, Samara thought passively as she watched the others bicker.

"I'm close to findin' this girl. I just found her damn doll three days ago!" Daryl pointed animatedly towards the forest.

Shane snorted sarcastically. "You found _a_ doll, Daryl. That's what you did. The others have been searchin' that area for three days, and guess what? They found nothin'. Not even a trail."

That ignited the redneck's temper. "You don't know what the hell you're talkin' about!" He took a step closer to Shane, intent clear. But Rick, as the good sheriff and man by nature that he was, stepped between them and held the two men at arm's length.

"I'm just sayin' what needs to be said!" Shane created even more commotion as he shouted. "You get a good lead, it's in the first 48 hours!"

Samara watched this display with a sour taste in her mouth. This was why Shane was never going to be a proper leader. Making a scene out of a situation that can be resolved calmly and spouting out every thought that came to mind without minding the consequences was a sign of bad leadership. The Native could see the reaction of the others and neither of them were in favor of the deputy. Carol seemed on the verge of tears and Dixon about to rip his head off.

_A fight should break out, right about…_

Samara slowly stepped to the forefront, making good on her promise to the sheriff.

"Let me tell you somethin' else, man. If she was alive out there and saw you comin' all methed out with your buck knife and geek ears around your neck, she would run in the other direction!"

_Now._

Before he even finished the sentence Samara was already in front of Dixon and pushing him away while Rick was trying to keep Shane in place. Even Glenn jumped in and helped Rick as the deputy seemed all too eager to fight. Everyone was shouting, with Daryl and Shane the most vocal. Even the dog starting howling in reaction to the uproar and it only put more fuel on the fire.

"Shut up, Alistair!" Samara barked at the dog and he immediately ceased, cowed.

The woman then turned her attention to the hunter in front of her. "Don't make this any worse than it already is." Samara said as her elbow and lower arm was pressed right against his chest pushing him back.

Daryl's sharp gaze wandered to her for a second before going back to Shane. Surprisingly, he did not shrug her off as he would normally. His mind was on other matters than on the marshal's attempts at restraining him. To the woman's relief, he did not attempt to sidestep her and reach Shane. At least one of them had the brain not to.

"Keep your hands off me!" Shane shouted at Lori when she tried to placate him, leaving her stunned. "We need to clean that barn."

"Hershel sees those things in there as people. Sick people. His wife, his stepson are in there." Rick said to Shane in a reasonable tone. He was trying very hard to regain the situation under control and his temper.

The man stopped in his pacing and looked at Grimes in disbelief. "You knew?"

The others also regarded the sheriff with shock or surprise as he nodded. "Yesterday I talked to Hershel."

"And you waited the night?"

"I needed the time to think things over. I was waitin' till this mornin' to say somethin', but Glenn wanted to be the one."

"What did he say?"

Rick paused to think on his words. "He wanted us off his farm, but he's reconsidering."

"That's just great." Shane spat as he started pacing angrily again. "The man is crazy, Rick, if Hershel thinks those things are alive or not—"

Screeches and guttural noises effectively broke the argument. Everyone backed away from the barn as the doors and chains started rattling. The walkers were reacting to their scuffle.

"Shit." Samara reached for her machete and gripped the handle until her knuckles turned white.

"That's it." Rick turned to the others. "You all need to leave the barn alone. Everyone go back to what you were doin'."

Everyone was all too eager to listen to Rick and left the area immediately. Grimes's gaze stayed on his friend who stood rooted in place and Samara took that as a sign that they needed their time alone to talk.

* * *

Not even ten minutes passed that the marshal spotted the hunter heading off into the direction of the stables with his crossbow in tow. With reluctance, the woman followed. The man was out of his mind if he was thinking of heading out into the forest so soon.

Samara caught up to Dixon and walked beside him at a moderate distance. She dully noted that his gait was slower than normal and that he was leaning towards the shoulder carrying the heavy crossbow. At each left step, his jaw clenched harder, most likely from the stab of pain shooting throughout his system from his injured side. The marshal could see the veins in his neck pulse rapidly and his nostrils flare and knew all this activity was putting a strain on his body.

—The man was struggling not to lose composure.

"Shane riled you up good, didn't he?"

Daryl had been trying rather hard to ignore the pest that appeared on his left, but it seemed that _it_ would not give him the respite he wanted. "Don't you have somethin' better to do than piss me off?"

"Not really." The smugness slipped away almost as fast as it appeared and instead replaced with shrewdness. "Rick already told you we haven't found anything."

"Maybe you missed somethin'. I'm a better tracker than you."

While that was the perfect starter for an argument, Samara reigned in her displeasure and remained passive. In truth, he _was_ better than her, but it didn't need to be said out loud. The marshal was rather proud of her tracking abilities and while she couldn't compete with someone that spent the majority of their lives in rough country, she was still better than most and she would rather not have one of her best assets be trampled upon.

"In your condition you won't be able to ride a horse, let alone be able to level that crossbow at anything."

"I'm _fine_."

Right in that moment, Daryl forgot to mind his footing and leaned his weight more heavily on his injured side resulting in him sharply inhaling his breath and freezing on the spot. Samara watched as the hunter bent over himself and cradled his injury, spitting out pain-filled curses along the way. Anyone else would have rushed to his side and helped him, but the marshal knew more than anything that that was the last thing you wanted to do with people like Dixon. They would rather suffer in silence than accept the fact that they need help. In retrospect, Samara was the same, hence why she hung back and patiently waited for the hunter to right himself.

It took a few minutes for Daryl to straighten up and when he did, he avoided the woman's gaze. He had always felt ashamed to show weakness in front of anyone, but most especially in front of this woman who was nothing more than a predator always looking for a weak spot to stab repeatedly and without mercy. But like yesterday, the woman controlled herself from saying or otherwise antagonizing him in any way. He didn't know if someone—_Grimes_—made her stop or if it was a conscious choice, either ways it made him nervous. Daryl by now could anticipate the Native's reactions to anger, but he was on unfamiliar territory with her unresponsiveness. He hated it when he couldn't read someone.

Once Samara saw his breathing return to normal, she spoke. "The only thing you are going to accomplish is bust open your stitches."

"Shit, woman." Daryl's icy orbs connected with her calm ones and glared hard. "Why don't we go back to not talkin' to each other? These past three days have been the best of my life."

The marshal's eyes flattened making her look like an annoyed cat, but other than that she gave no other outward reaction. Inside she was fuming of course, and with a deep inhale she left the foolish man to his attempts. The moment she turned Samara spotted Carol hurrying towards them, or more likely Daryl. It seemed she was the only one out of the group that noticed his absence.

"What is he doing?" Carol's worried tone reached her ears as soon as the woman was within Samara's immediate range.

"Being an idiot."

Carol slipped past her without looking in her direction once. Her concerned eyes were locked on the man currently limping inside the stable with a saddle in his arms. Samara shook her head when she saw the hick stumble as his injury pained him. This was a pathetic display.

The marshal slipped her sunglasses out of her shirt pocket and placed them over her eyes. There was nothing she could do here anymore.

* * *

After the almost argument with Dixon, Samara had taken refuge in helping Maggie around the farm. They didn't converse much, other than instructions. The marshal's mind was elsewhere and Maggie appeared too annoyed with the morning event to utter a word. There was a slight _accident_ with Glenn in which Maggie not so subtlety expressed her frustration with him that left Samara laughing whole heartedly.

After an hour of chores, the farm girl dismissed her and Samara took refuge on the old rocking chair on the house porch. Alistair had joined her soon and settled himself by her feet, dozing off quietly.

Not even a few minutes had passed that she saw Jimmy run towards the house and almost ripped the door off its hinges in his haste to enter. His face was strained and the apprehension he exuded was almost tangible. The marshal didn't think he even noticed her sitting there.

—Something had happened.

Her suspicions were confirmed when Hershel stepped out of the house with Jimmy and his grim eyes settled on the woman.

"Samara, I need your help."

"With what?"

"Jimmy found two sick ones down by the creek. We need help in bringin' them back to the barn."

While Samara's throat clogged at the prospect, she didn't really have a choice in the matter. "…How?"

"We use snare poles." Jimmy intervened. With a nod from Hershel, the young man left to most likely retrieve said objects.

_Snare poles…Gods._

"Then we're going to need another person." Samara shot him a knowing look. "You should ask Rick for his help also."

The man's brows furrowed.

"He is a good man." Samara stressed. The woman then took a deep breath. If she said this, there was a chance that it would cement the group's standing here. And while that notion jarred her, she was reluctant to see Grimes leave. "I can't say the same about all the others, but you should trust _him_. He and his family can't leave the farm."

"Because of his wife."

"And because they don't deserve to go back out there. They've had enough trouble thrown at them."

The man looked over the farm grounds and spotted the sheriff by the truck with Andrea hunched over the map. His eyes then settled on an agitated Shane who seemed to be looking for something by the RV. While he had no problem with the majority of the group, there were still some rotten apples that he was not sure of.

"I have already decided to let Rick and his people remain here. Your words, while encouragin', were not needed."

"…Oh."

Hershel descended the stairs with heavy steps. His posture showed the strain of what it was expected of him to do now that Otis was gone. "Jimmy and I will be by the forest edge. The two of you be there as soon as you can."

Samara didn't waste a second and jumped to her feet. Her next stop was the sheriff and she hoped to the gods that he had the mind to go along with Hershel's demands, crazy as they were.

Rick was so engrossed in reading the map that he did not hear the woman's approach until Andrea notified him. "Where were you?" He called out to her without raising his eyes from the map. "I've been thinkin' of headin' south. If Sophia kept in that direction, she might have gotten out of the forest and into the farmland—"

"Leave it. I need your help on something." Samara stopped near the duo and the grim tone surrounding her had the sheriff detach his gaze from the map and observe her.

"Count me in." While thinking that she was lending a hand, Andrea was in fact just hindering.

The marshal nodded towards Grimes, brushing off the blonde. "Just him."

There was an awkward pause as Andrea stilled for a few seconds. The offhanded rebuttal actually offended her and sent a pang of hurt through her chest. Shaking off the fleeting emotions, she holstered her gun. "I'll be down at the barn keepin' watch until you're ready."

The blonde threw Samara a disappointed frown as she passed her by.

_Nothing personal_, Samara thought, _I just don't have any need of you right now._

"What's goin' on?"

Samara took a step further, encroaching on the man's personal space. "How badly do you want to remain here, Grimes?"

Blue eyes iced over and lips pursed into a stern line. "More than anythin'."

"Would you be willing to do something that goes against every fiber of your being?" Gods know, she will.

He paused this time. While staying here is his top priority, Rick wasn't about to agree to anything that spouted out of the marshal's mouth. He knew her too well.

The serious look did not fade away, instead a wariness took over. "…If that is what it takes, yes."

The Native nodded grimly. "Good. Let's go then. Hershel's waiting."

* * *

Samara was guiding the undead girl, while Rick and Jimmy controlled the middle aged man behind her and Hershel was ahead of everyone.

At first, Rick almost backed away from the proposal. It _was_ rather insane. But he knew that if he wanted to remain here, he had no choice.

Samara was of the same mind and she almost turned tail and ran back to camp when she caught sight of the two walkers stuck in the muddy pools. But the marshal was not one to cower at the prospect of some difficulty. And so, she had metaphorically rolled up her sleeves and grasped an animal control pole.

The marshal really couldn't feel any sympathy for the two walkers. She didn't care that they were Louise from the farm up the road or the gas stop worker, they both were stinking sacks of rotten flesh and bones that deserved a machete in the head, not a unlife extension.

Samara cursed and groaned as she slipped in the mud yet again. The undead girl was raunchier than expected. She must have been a real kicker in life. For a second, she had desperately wanted to bash the girl's head in, but reminded herself not a second too late in who's presence she was in.

The two lawmen had conversed privately after the Native disclosed the reason for putting off the search for Sophia. After Rick accepted his new role as walker catcher, Samara broached the subject on what the others will say and, more importantly, do once they see the caught wendigos. Grimes did not voice out his opinion as he knew what his people would most likely do.

Two hours later, they reached the edge of the forest with the camp in sight. Samara's muscles tensed in anticipation. There was only one way for this situation to go—down.

–How she hated it when she was right.

It didn't take long for the others to run up to them and Shane to start shouting. The marshal couldn't blame him, if she came upon such a scene, she would probably lose her shit also. Samara was gritting her teeth from the strain laid upon her arms. The commotion Shane was making was agitating the walkers into a frenzy and making her and Rick's job of holding onto them harder.

Rick was trying to simultaneously guide his walker and placate Shane, but unfortunately he succeeded at only one.

"These things right here, they're the things that killed Amy! They killed Otis! They're gonna kill all of us!" Shane screamed and pointed wildly as he circled the walkers and the ones controlling them.

"Shane, shut the fuck up!" Samara bellowed in frustration as her hands almost slipped off the pole when the dead girl jolted forward. Shane had gotten too close and the corpsey bitch jumped at the opportunity to catch some fresh meat.

The others had gathered around them and were watching the grotesque display with fear and horror. Some, like Dixon, were aiming their guns at the walkers, fingers already on the triggers and seconds away from pulling them.

The worst part was when Shane stopped in front of them and pulled out his gun.

"Hey, Hershel, let me ask you somethin'." The deputy cocked his gun and aimed. "Could a livin', breathin' person walk away from this?"

He unloaded three shots in the undead girl's chest, but the walking corpse was not deterred. The loud gunshots echoed throughout the farm and froze its occupants in their place. It rightfully startled Samara as the entire pole shook with the walker's jerks. The marshal was absolutely livid at Shane's behavior. He was taking this too far and scarring the old man and his family. Hershel looked like someone had just slapped him.

"No! Stop it!" Rick shouted as he stared furiously and helplessly at his friend.

"That's three rounds in the chest!" The deputy ignored the sheriff and continued on his rant, only seeing red in front of his eyes. "Could someone who's alive just take that?!"

_Oh Gods, this is a nightmare, _Samara thought as she watched powerlessly as Shane unloaded his gun into her walker.

Again the man shot the walker. "That's its heart, its lungs!" Each undying organ was accentuated with a bullet in its location. "Why is it still comin'?"

"Shane, enough!" Rick shouted as he was at wit's edge. He was just about to let go of his pole and tackle the raving man in front of him.

The sheriff's shout seemed to have snapped the deputy out of his rage and an eerie calm settled over him. "Yeah, you're right, man. That is enough." He advanced on the girl walker and Samara, and the marshal already knew his intentions, but powerless to stop him as her hands were rather occupied.

Olive green eyes fleeted around wildly, looking for help. On who they settled on did not even surprise her. "Dixon, stop him!"

The hunter's intense stare riveted to her and surprise appeared in his features before settling into confusion. On one hand he wanted the walkers shot down, but the way Shane was advocating it had him restraining himself. He also knew that he couldn't just start shooting.

—Daryl never had the chance to do much of anything as Shane shot the walker point blanc in the head.

Time seemed to slow down as the walker fell to the ground and the snare pole slipped from Samara's hands. Hershel fell to his knees as he witnessed the event like some macabre theater act. Numbness overwhelmed his system and a sense of disbelief washed over his mind, his brain similar to a dry sponge.

"Goddamn you, Shane…" Samara whispered hoarsely as she furiously glared at him. Didn't he realize what he was doing? How he was effectively ruining every chance the group had with Hershel?

Shane's pacing increased as his eyes burned holes into Rick. "Enough riskin' our lives for a little girl who's gone!"

Carol whimpered deep in her throat and hugged herself tight. The hunter glared hard at the deputy, but did not snap back.

"Enough livin' next to a barn full of things that are tryin' to kill us! Enough! Rick, it ain't like it was before!" He pointed wildly towards the barn. "Now if y'all want to live, if you want to survive, you got to fight for it! I'm talkin' about fightin' right here, right now."

The moment Shane turned around and ran towards the barn, Samara's instincts snapped to attention and her legs moved on their own. If she had to tackle the fool to the ground, she'd do it. Anything to stop this down-spiraling situation.

—Unfortunately, she never made it passed three steps.

Strong, grimy arms enveloped her from behind and efficiently stopped her. Samara's legs kicked up and she struggled in the man's strong grip.

"What are you doing?! Let go of me!"

"No." The deep, gruff voice of Daryl Dixon added more fuel to the fire as the Native struggled even more. "He opens that door, those walkers are comin' out. Better they get him…"

She suddenly stopped like a deer in the headlights and turned her head to the side, eyes pleading. It didn't matter at this moment that this was Dixon, the redneck that she wouldn't let touch her even if he traded a rifle with her. What mattered was stopping Shane from opening that barn. "Please, let me go."

Daryl's brow furrowed and a doubtful sheen settled over his blues. That nagging self-doubt returned and tugged at his heart like a mad dog, but steadfast determination won in the end. "I can't."

While the two spoke, Rick was attempting to convince Hershel to take the snare pole out of his hands so he could stop Shane. The old man was deaf to the world as he stared out at everything and nothing, his mind still not up with the current events.

Shane reached the double doors and hacked off the padlock with a pickaxe. The board was lifted and the doors opened on their own with an ominous creek. All human shouts and dog barks ceased at once and instead startling anticipation rolled in.

Samara watched as one, two, three walkers came out and then more and more until ten were out in the open growling and snapping their teeth at them. The arms around her disappeared quick as lightning and the cocking of a shotgun soon followed.

Andreea, T-Dog, Glenn snapped to attention and followed Daryl's example—lining up in front of the others, guns aimed at the walkers waiting with baited breath for the first bullet to fly. Rick stood behind not willing to participate in this insanity.

"No! No guns!" Samara shouted as she watched the hostile lineup. It actually escaped her mind what would happen if they all opened fire—what they would bring upon them.

Samara's shouts were ignored as Shane courteously fired the first shot. And with that confirmation, everyone else followed in his steps. The marshal stepped back until she was beside Rick and the two watched the grim display with dead eyes. Walker after walker fell to the ground like bowling pins.

The booms of the firearms resounded throughout the entire area of the farm and swallowed all other sound. Each time one of the group pulled the trigger, the more Samara's will to remain wilted.

Daryl's shotgun was the last to go off and peace settled over the farm once again.

_Gods, what have they done…_, Samara wondered as her eyes settled on the old man kneeling on the ground with Maggie holding onto him, tears running down her cheeks. The distraught pain was evident on her face as she witnessed friends and family move for the last time.

_Hiss._

Everyone was startled as a soft noise came from inside the barn. Soon after, the limping shuffle of the undead reached their ears and with each drag of its feet, the volume increased to a stomach clenching moment. There was an ominous vibe in the air that was felt by all those around, but without knowledge of why.

—No one could have predicted who would come out of the barn.

Samara's eyes widened in surprise as Sophia, the very person they have been searching for the past couple of weeks, emerged into the light—wrinkled pasty skin, sunken pale eyes, growling intelligible sounds. The whole package.

The others remained rooted in place, frozen in shock. Carol was the first to move once she recognized the form of her daughter. It didn't matter to her that she was one of them, the woman had tunnel vision to the fact that she was seeing her daughter for the first time since she disappeared. Daryl tackled her to the ground, unwilling to let the older woman near the walker, Sophia or not.

Samara was startled out of her stupor when Rick moved forward silently, his steps speaking of something final. Her hand lifted and attempted to stop him from doing what she believed he would do, but her muscles wouldn't comply and her fingers only brushed over the coarse material of his shirt. Her need to stop him wasn't born out of practical matters, but stemmed from the fact that it would hurt Grimes deeply.

She watched with sad eyes as Rick stopped in front of the once alive girl and shot her in the forehead, only pausing once. Carol's cries of agony and Carl's sobs for a lost friend were the only things heard in the aftermath.

The shrieks of despair made Samara's stomach clench in phantom pain. The loss the older woman was experiencing was all too familiar and dark memories surfaced from that faraway corner of her mind, but the marshal pushed them back effectively. Swallowing the lump in her throat, olive eyes settled on the undead form of the child sprawled on the dusty ground. There was an indifference in her stare, one born from witnessing too many dead bodies. Samara had called upon her defenses and reverted back to marshal mode where emotional distance saved your sanity.

Two weeks spent of searching for that skinny little thing and all for nothing. The girl was probably turned hours after she got lost since Otis stumbled upon the group a day later. He must have found her between that time and brought her to the barn, and with the whole Carl ordeal no one thought to ask Otis if he saw the girl. All of this could have been averted if they had just talked to Otis.

_Goddammit…_

* * *

**Foot Note:** Finally finished with the Sophia arc and now we'll go into the second part of season 2. Can't wait to finish with the farm.

Constructive criticism is welcome as always. I'll see you guys in January! (figuratively speaking)


	13. Take the Red Pill, Take the Blue Pill

**Note:** Yes, I know. I promised to update in January and it's fucking March right now. But before you throw the stones, let me explain the reason (s): lack of time and lack of motivation. I barely had any time to write (I work and have classes) and I had a horrid lapse of inspiration, practically none, that is until I read the manga 'I am a Hero' (it's with zombies and gore and shit, pretty cool) which gave me a boost in continuing the story. So here's the update. Enjoy.

**PS:** Not gonna promise to update anymore, since I can't keep that promise even if it meant a bullet in the foot.

* * *

Samara stood among the inhabitants of the farm, still experiencing the aftermath of Shane's extermination ploy. Beth was the only one openly sobbing, while Carol was on the ground whimpering to herself. When Daryl attempted to pull her to her feet, the woman shoved him off forcefully and ran, unable to deal with the sight of her daughter's corpse.

Beth was the next to move as she caught sight of her mother's form underneath a male walker. She ran to her, undeterred by Rick's gentle words.

The marshal was brought out of her listless stupor when the girl suddenly screamed. It seemed that her undead mother wasn't as dead as everyone thought. Both Rick and Shane took hold of Beth and attempted to pull her away from the walker, but the corpse had a strong grip on her. Glenn pulled on the walker's legs while Hershel got up from his kneeled position, his daughter's cries springing him into action, and dragged her from the ghastly beast. T-Dog kicked the snarling walker and stomped on its head but it barely phased it.

A small pop rang unheard as the walker slumped to the ground, a hole appearing in its forehead. Everyone backed away surprised and looked around for the source of the bullet. They found it in the form of the marshal with her silenced gun pointed at the walker.

The Native casually holstered. Finally, the commotion was over and sweet silence reigned over.

Hershel gathered up his distressed daughter and left with the rest of his family towards the house. There was nothing left for them to see.

Shane, like the impulsive raging bull that he was, followed and accused the whole family of knowing the girl's location—that they deliberately withheld that information. Rick, Glenn and Samara followed, and the sheriff attempted to stop the man from aggravating the Greene's further only to be pushed back.

"I didn't know." Hershel reiterated again, his voice a shadow of his former one.

"That's bullshit! I think y'all knew. Why was she there?!" Shane asked again, veins protruding in his neck from the tension in his body.

Hershel stopped atop the stairs on his porch. "Otis put those people in the barn. Maybe he found her and put her in there before he was killed. "

"You expect me to believe that? Do I look like an idiot?"

"I don't care what you believe!" Hershel raised his voice, annoyance finally crawling into his stunned psyche.

Rick tried to gain control of the situation and pushed his friend back. "Everybody just calm down."

"Get him off my land!" Hershel shouted as he climbed down those steps.

Samara's internal alarm blared. That was what she was afraid of. Hershel throwing all of them off his property for the actions of just one idiot.

Hearing that, Shane advanced on the older man and both Maggie and Samara sprinted into action. Samara grabbed Shane by the forearm, but before she could drag him away, Maggie slapped him in anger.

"Don't touch him! Haven't you done enough?"

That seemed to drain some of the anger out of Shane as he backed away with a little guidance from Samara.

"I mean it...Off my land." Hershel said as he entered his house with Maggie after him, throwing one last glare Shane's way.

Glenn gave Shane a most disapproving look before following the Greene's inside.

Samara, Rick and Shane were the only ones left in the shadow of the house. Once the door closed in Glenn's wake, Rick verbally pounced on his friend.

"What are you doing?" When Shane did not look Rick in the eye, but simply avoided him, Rick asked again more powerfully.

Shane glanced his way, but did not linger. He was calm now as his actions caught up to his rational thinking. He realized all too late what he had done and the consequences of it, but that did not stop his accusations. "Daryl almost died looking for her, Rick. Any one of us could have. That son of a bitch, he knew."

"He didn't know shit, you goddamn idiot!" Samara turned on the man and hissed furiously. The marshal was so angry right now she could kill the man—the reason why she was keeping her fists clenched and tried not give into the temptation of rearranging Shane's face. "Did it appear to you that he knew an iota back there?"

"Hershel's not like that. He opened his home to us." Rick strengthened the marshal's comment, only with less cursing.

Shane grimaced and spat on the ground. "He put us all in danger. He kept a barn full of walkers."

"So you just start an insurrection, hand out guns and massacre his family?"

"His family's dead."

Samara waved towards the house. "He doesn't believe that. He thinks you just murdered them in cold blood!"

"I don't care what he thinks."

Samara snorted in disbelief at his response. _Stupid man._ "What he thinks depends on us staying on this farm or not. And you just fucked that up!"

"What? You actually believe what he said?" Shane huffed before his eyes narrowed into a glare. "Nobody's throwin' _any_ of us off this land."

The marshal's teeth showed in a cruel smile. "Oh no, Shane. Hershel only mentioned _you_ and to be truthful, I agree with him. Maybe it's time you move on."

When Shane took a step towards the Native was when Rick got between the two of them and pushed both back. "Enough! Both of you!"

The look he gave Samara paused the woman from further aggravating Shane.

"I was handlin' the situation." The sheriff said clearly to Shane. "I was handlin' it, brother, and you just—"

Shane interrupted whatever righteous speech Rick was about to give him. "You had us out in those woods lookin' for a little girl that every single one of us knew was dead. That's what you did. Rick, you're just as delusional as that old man."

With nothing left to say, Shane departed for the barn, but not without voicing out one last jab. "You handlin' it, huh?"

Rick just stood there with this defeated look on his face. What Shane had said about sending his people out in the woods had been true. And the situation had slipped from his fingers a long time ago, he just turned a blind eye to it, _hoping_ that things would not escalate.

—And now it just hit him in the face how wrong he had been.

Samara watched the stunned sheriff with furrowed brows. While she disliked the man that was here just a moment ago, what he said hadn't been without proof.

"Hershel's going to send us all away, not just him."

Samara's words were like a bucket of cold water that hurled Rick back to reality. "I won't let that happen."

"I don't think it's up to you anymore." The Native ran a hand over her tired features, mental exhaustion finally settling in.

"This should have never happened." Rick shook his head in denial. His eyes settled on his group gathered around the corpses, but once his blues stopped on the small, still form of Sophia, anger bubbled up to the surface. "Dammit all!"

Samara watched this aggressive display with passivity, and softly and reasonably spoke. "You knew just as well as I did that things would escalate the moment we stepped foot on this farm with those walkers."

"I didn't know Shane was gonna gun 'em down."

"You knew he would do something drastic." Samara didn't doubt for a second that the sheriff thought of dozens of end scenarios. Her sharp gaze returned to the man in question with heavy trepidation. "The man's losing it, in case you haven't noticed."

Rick paused in his anger and shot the woman a hesitant look. "Shane's just…overstressed."

Cynicism crawled into the Native's features. "Keep telling yourself that, Grimes."

Rick sighed deeply and turned away, his legs taking him back to his group.

"Hey." The woman's somber tone caused the sheriff to pause. Samara watched Rick's tense back with despondent eyes. She still vividly remembered how crushed he looked as he marched towards that girl, gun in hand. "What you did back there…You didn't have to, you know?"

He instantly knew what she was hinting towards. "It was my responsibility. I was the one that kept insistin' we look for her."

"Dixon also insisted we search for the girl. You didn't see him raise his shotgun." Samara sighed when her retort did not seem to affect the man's mood, and changed tactics. "Look, what I'm trying to say is: I'm sorry you had to be the one to do it. I…don't even want to know how that must have felt. Having to—"

"Come on. We need to bury 'em." Rick interrupted her tersely and continued moving without a glance back.

The marshal's brow rose. The two of them might be closer, but that didn't mean she would listen to everything that came out of his mouth. Besides, the prospect of actually having to perform burial rites to those shells made her want to gag.

"I have better things to do than dig holes."

Rick did not even stop in his stride as if having expected her objection and had no energy to fight with her about it. As such, Samara vanished inside the house.

* * *

The marshal stepped into the living room where Maggie and Glenn were. They both looked overwhelmed, but Maggie carried that strong front she always wore with her head held high. Right now she had to be the anchor in the family. It didn't matter that she was still in a mild form of shock, she had to remain upright for her loved ones.

"How's your father?" Samara stopped near the couches with her eyes glued to the second floor.

Maggie scoffed and gave the woman an annoyed look. "How do you expect?"

Green eyes settled calmly on the angry young woman. "Don't chew my head off, girl. I wasn't the one that started that massacre."

"No, but you shot my stepmother in the head."

Glen shifted anxiously from the window, ready to interfere if things got out of control. Another fight was the last thing they needed.

Samara was barely fazed as one dark eyebrow rose in question. "Would you prefer it bit your sister and turned her into one of them?"

That seemed to have quieted the farm girl as anger slipped from her countenance and self-doubt creped in.

Samara nodded to herself in knowing. Her gaze returned to the stairs and her brows furrowed in thought. The marshal wondered if it was a good time to speak with the farmer. There were matters they needed to discuss, most importantly her position with the old man.

"He's not in a talkin' mood right now."

Maggie's perceptiveness brought the Native out of her musings. It seemed the girl managed to decipher her thoughts from her expression.

Samara nodded and backed away towards the exit. Before she could leave the house, she peaked over her shoulder.

"How are you holding up?"

Maggie's eyelids quivered for a second with unshed tears. "I just saw my stepmother and brother die again. And this time they're not gonna get up."

The marshal hummed deeply in her throat and whispered into the lifeless house. "Maybe that's for the best…"

* * *

An hour later, everyone was gathered around the graves for Sophia and Hershel's wife and son. Considering the impromptu nature, the eulogy was kept short and to a point. Nobody lingered after it was over, having nothing else to say to one another.

Samara splintered off from the group and took refuge on the hood of her Volkswagen. Alistair had joined her and nestled underneath the car. Right now she needed to think.

If the Greene's decided to send all of them off the farm, then she would part with the Atlanta group and go her own way. She had mulled over the thought of remaining with them, but after what happened today, there was no possible way she would live with that walking volcano named Shane Walsh. And Samara seriously doubted that Rick was capable of controlling his people anymore.

She was better off on her own, either ways. No one to worry about but herself, no unnecessary actions that could end in her dying, no extra effort for people she had no attachments to, and no Kentucky shotgun-toting and Georgia redneck assholes.

The sheriff was the only one that she would miss to be truthful. The others were nice people, but she hadn't gotten that close to them in these past few weeks. Maybe in the future months when the road stretched on for far too long and the loneliness got to her, she would remember them fondly and think of them as friends.

On the off chance she and the others remained on the farm then there were some serious consequences she had to think of. One, the noise caused by the guns was most likely heard by every walker in the last couple of miles. And if the dumb bastards actually managed to pinpoint the location, then they were screwed.

While these were speculations, maybe it was better if she left…The thought of being encircled by hordes of walkers was not a welcomed one.

Samara never got to finish her train of thought as she caught sight of Dixon exiting the RV. Her eyes hardened into concrete and she stepped off the hood. Samara shooed the dog off when he tried to follow, and pursued the redneck like a second shadow.

"Dixon."

The hunter's steps faltered for a second before continuing, albeit a bit more rapidly.

Samara was not deterred as she picked up the pace and walked beside him.

"What do you want?" Dixon said evenly, not even a slither of anger present in his tone. He seemed more defeated than anything. "You wanna tell me that you're right and I was wrong? That all this time I was chasin' a ghost and you were the only one with their eyes open?" He stopped and faced her, his brows furrowing. "Huh?"

While Samara was here to chew his ass out for holding her back from stopping Shane, her anger deflated at the sight of him. The state the whole Sophia ordeal left the man gave Samara's stomach a nasty flip. Daryl looked like he just got processed through a meat grinder and then had to glue himself back together.

When the marshal did not respond, Daryl snapped. "Well? Come on! Say it!"

Samara forced herself not to react to his rage and remain passive. "Do you really think I'm so callous that I would throw in your face what just happened?" The Native spoke softly. "That was a goddamn tragedy. Nobody should have seen that, much less the mother…You don't get over things like that."

Callous hands threaded through sleek sweaty hair. Samara avoided the man's eyes as she spoke. "I'm sorry for her and…for you."

Daryl snorted. While he was surprised that the marshal was speaking civilly—gently even—he was not convinced. She approached him for a reason and he doubted it was to express sympathy.

"I don't want your pity."

The woman sighed. "It's not pity, just the unfairness of it."

Before Daryl could retort to her strange, empathic statement, the door to the house practically flew open as Glenn ran down the stairs. Both hunter and marshal watched in curiosity as the Korean looked around the grounds and once his eyes settled on the pair of them, his feet carried him towards them. Samara almost growled in annoyance upon seeing the young man's face. Worry was etched all over his expression and the marshal just knew that it meant a new set of troubles.

"Daryl! Samara!"

"What the hell happened now?" Daryl frowned at him. He could already feel a headache coming on.

"It's Beth. She just collapsed."

* * *

A russet finger moved in front of the girl's wide, vacant eyes. Beth ocular specs did not respond no matter in which direction the appendage moved.

"Yeah…She's in shock, alright."

Samara straightened up and looked over Beth's catatonic form with clinical detachment. She had poked and prodded the girl in every way that she knew and there was no response. Only a bit of common knowledge brought her to her answer.

"What can we do?" Patricia gently stroked her baby sister's limp hand. It was the only thing that kept her from going into a full-blown panic. After everything's that happened, the Greene woman didn't think she could take anything more.

"_We_ can't do anything. You need a real doctor and a psychologist for this."

Patricia's shoulders sagged in defeat. Her saddened eyes returned to her sister and she felt her stomach churn. "I can't believe this. She's just layin' there like a…"

"Corpse?" Samara quipped without thinking. Once her brain caught up to her words, she winced. "Sorry."

The marshal quickly found another topic of discussion since Patricia's lingering glare was starting to make the air in the room uncomfortable. "Where's your father?"

"We can't find him anywhere."

_Just great. When the old man is needed for his medical _expertise_, he vanishes._

Samara looked through the open door into the room adjunct that was Hershel's. The Kentucky policemen were inside along with Maggie, Glenn and Lori. From what she could hear of the conversation, they were talking about the bar in the nearby small town. Rick and Glenn decided to go there to find Hershel. The majority in that room was not in agreement for them to leave, even Maggie surprisingly. She was afraid for Glenn, afraid that a walker would get him.

Once the sheriff exited the room, his eyes connected to Samara's. A deep frown settled over his brow as if the thoughts swirling inside his head weighted on him.

"You up to a trip to town?" He asked evenly, but Samara could hear the reluctance in his voice.

The marshal was not sure why he was asking her along. Comforting people was not her forte. In all probability, she'll make it even worse. Perhaps the sheriff just needed her to track Hershel down in case he wasn't in the bar.

Samara nodded and headed downstairs to prepare, leaving behind Rick, now in hushed conversation with his wife and Shane.

Passing the tents, the Native climbed inside the RV and searched for the gun bag. Finding it inside a cupboard, Samara took out two handguns and the hunting rifle and strapped them to their rightful place. Having them again felt right, nostalgic even.

Once outside she walked towards Grimes who stood beside his car waiting for her and Glenn who was with Maggie near the porch having a private moment. On her way, Samara noticed that Dixon's tent was taken down and, that currently, the man was gathering his belongings. The Native slowed down and watched the display with a frown.

_Is the hillbilly leaving?_

The conclusions for this new development came with a bout of cheers that rang inside her head. Without thinking she approached the man, but stopped once she heard the sheriff call out to her.

"Let's go!"

Finally connecting her actions to her mind, she mentally chided herself and set off towards the car. Glenn was already in the side passenger seat and Rick behind the wheel. While Samara had wanted the front seat, she contended herself with the wide space in the back.

"Why are we taking this piece of junk instead of one of the better cars?" Samara grimaced crudely at the beat up family van.

"More space." Rick said offhandedly as he started up the car.

The inhabitants of the car settled into a tense silence as the car drove up the dirt road. Samara's eyes followed the scenery with disinterest. She was not motivated enough to search for the old farmer. The way she saw it, he would come home after getting shit-faced drunk. After today, he earned at least this much.

But unfortunately, with the catatonic farm girl and the danger of the undead lurking around, they needed him sober and on familiar grounds.

"Maggie said she loves me."

The abrupt end of the stillness in the car almost made the marshal jump in her seat. She had been so focused on the scenery that she had not anticipated the distraction.

"She doesn't mean it. I mean she can't." Glenn laughed without humor. The doubt in his mannerism and voice was so obvious it was almost palpable. "She... she's upset or confused. She's probably feeling like—"

"I think she's smart enough to know what she's feelin'." Rick said with a hint of amusement.

Samara was not amused by this conversation and returned to her observations. While she kept her eyes on the scenery, her ears followed the discussion.

Glenn began prattling on about how Maggie wasn't in love with him, but the idea of it. That she just needed someone to hold onto. Rick wasn't of the same mind as he calmed the younger man down.

This conversation was so plain for Samara, so _normal_ that it seemed out of place in their current world.

Samara raised a brow at the statement. She hadn't noticed any depth of emotion between the two blooming lovers. But then again, Samara was not so interested in others love life that she followed their every move. She had thought it was just a fling, something to get their minds off of the fact that the world basically went down the drain. It seemed there was more to it…

"So what's the problem?" Rick asked as his eyes returned to the road.

The young Korean fidgeted in his seat, a worried frown settling over his brow. "I didn't say it back. I've never had a woman say that to me before except my mom and my sisters. But with Maggie, it's different." There was a glint in his eyes that could only be attributed to deep affection, but it quickly vanished as the feeling of inferiority swallowed him whole again. "We barely know each other. What does she really know about me? Nothing. We're practically strangers."

Glenn winced as he remembered the conversation with Maggie and what he _didn't_ do. "But I... I didn't know what to do with it. I just stood there like a jerk."

"Gods, do you always whine this much?" Frustration with the conversation soon reached the point where Samara had to throw in her two cents. "Just tell her you love her even if it isn't true. You never know when you're going to die, why pass up the chance."

Glenn turned in his seat and gave the woman a disapproving look. "That…No, that would be wrong on so many levels. I couldn't do that to her."

Samara scoffed at his principles. They were as useless as breasts on a man.

"Don't listen to her, Glenn." Rick caught Samara's gaze in the rearview mirror and glared at her. If there was anyone that could ruin a good mood in a matter of second it was the marshal. The sheriff turned his attention towards the other male and gave an encouraging smile. "It's a good thing what you got with Maggie, somethin' we don't get enough of these days. Enjoy it. And when we get back, return the favor. It's not like she's goin' anywhere."

Rick veered the car and stopped near the bar. With the engine cut off, the silence was deafening. Once, where life thrived, was now a ghost town where even the spirits of the deceased couldn't haunt.

The moment Glenn opened up the subject of him having knowledge of Lori's pregnancy was when Samara felt like the third wheel and rushed out of the car. After the emotional outbreak the sheriff had in the forest, she was not ready to hear or talk feelings with him anytime soon. It made her uncomfortable.

The marshal noticed that the sun was close to setting. By her estimate, night will settle in about an hour. Samara had no intention to remain here until the stars came out. Without her night-vision goggles, she felt helpless in the dark. Walkers could just walk up to them and they wouldn't even notice.

Not even a few seconds passed that the sheriff followed her lead and exited the car. Rick took the lead with Samara right behind him. Glenn joined them and gazed apologetically at the Georgia lawman.

"I'm sorry I kept it from you."

"Don't be. You did what you thought was right. It just so happens it wasn't."

Rick pushed the door of the bar open and stepped inside cautiously with Samara at his side, their guns out and ready. Samara's eyes darted all over the empty, shadowed bar. She ignored the hunched form of Hershel at the other end of the bar as she looked for threats.

Rick sighed and holstered his gun. "Hershel."

"Who's with you?" The man called out softly.

"Samara and Glenn."

Both Samara and Glenn settled into a more relaxed stance, but held their guns at the ready. Safe surroundings were always deceiving.

Samara stopped beside the old man, eyeing the whiskey bottle beside the glass tightly clutched in his hands. Rick joined her not too soon with Glenn remaining a few steps behind as the look out.

"How many have you had?" Samara pointed towards the translucent glass with dark golden liquid.

The old man's lips quirked for the faintest second before returning to their somber inclination. "Not enough."

Samara took the bottle with no fuss from Hershel who didn't even seem to notice that it was gone. She took one swing directly out of the bottle as she leaned against the bar a short distance from the two men. Samara grimaced as she lost her taste for whiskey or anything with alcohol in it since the outbreak.

Rick leaned over and spoke gently, but firmly to the older man. "Hershel, Beth collapsed. She's in shock. I think you are too."

_No shit_, Samara thought. The faint tremor in his hands and the thousand yard stare were pretty good indicators of that.

A dismayed sheen settled over Hershel's tired eyes. "What can I do? She needs her mother. Or rather to mourn like she should've done weeks ago. I robbed her of that. I see that now."

"You thought there was a cure. Can't blame yourself for holdin' out for hope."

"Hope?" Hershel parroted disbelievingly and finally looked Rick in the eyes. The sheriff immediately hated what he saw there. Defeat. "When I first saw you runnin' across my field with your boy in your arms, I had little hope he would survive."

"But he did."

"He did. Even though we lost Otis." The slight intonation in his voice was a sign that Hershel was still not over that fact. "Your man Shane made it back and we saved your boy."

Samara lost her appetite for the whisky once she remembered Otis's agonized screams.

"That was the miracle that proved to me miracles do exist. Only it was a sham, a bait and switch." Hershel hunched over himself, his lower lids adorned with small pearly tears. "I was a fool, Rick, and you people saw that. My daughters deserve better than that…"

Realizing that there was no reasoning with the older man at the moment, Rick left him to his demons. His steps were heavy and impatient as he joined Glenn by the door. Samara followed in his lead, leaving the bottle with Hershel.

"So what do we do? Just wait for him to pass out?" Glenn asked as he eyed the slumped form at the bar.

"I could just knock him out and we could drag him back."

Samara's idea brought out some frowns. "That's a terrible idea."

"Just go!" Hershel shouted at them peeved. He wanted to be alone and the three of them were like annoying flies buzzing around his head.

Rick frowned at the older man and approached him. "I promised Maggie I'd bring you home safe."

"Like you promised that little girl?"

Rick's steps faltered with a deafening tap. The silence that followed was so thick it could be cut in half with a knife. Samara watched the myriad of emotions that passed over the sheriff's expression. Grief, disappointment, shame, and finally anger.

"So what's your plan?" Rick rushed towards him, suppressed rage twisting his voice. "Finish that bottle? Drink yourself to death and leave your girls alone?"

It seemed the words hit home as Hershel pushed his chair aside and met Rick halfway. "Stop tellin' me how to care for my family, my farm! You people are like a plague!"

_Heh. Even the old man admits it. _Samara watched this display with calculating eyes with her mind on the fact that they needed to leave before the sun set.

"I do the Christian thing, give you shelter, and you destroy it all!"

"The world was already in bad shape when we met." Rick tried to placate him, but his nerves were already dangerously close to the edge.

"And you take no responsibility! You're supposed to be their leader!"

A dark brow rose._ Was he talking about Rick or himself?_

Rick finally snapped and matched Hershel's angered tone. "Well, I'm here now, aren't I?"

The Native could practically see the fight leave the older man's body. "Yes. Yes. Yes, you are."

With heavy feet, Hershel returned to his seat. Shaky hands reached for the remains of the whisky and the farmer downed it like a veteran.

Rick followed him and when he attempted to move Hershel from his seat, the older man pushed him away and began ranting. About revelations, the dead and no hope for the living. The look on the sheriff's face could be read as disbelief, but inside he was seething. Everything that Hershel was telling him was the truth, but it was told as if he was ignorant of all this. He was the one that lived through it, not the older man. He was very intimate with those feelings.

Nothing had changed. Death was still death. The only difference was that a new cause had been added: death by undead virus. Rick told him this. This and the fact that hope was not gone yet. Hope was still alive as long as there were still people that depended on them to guide and protect through these hard times.

It wasn't about what he and Hershel believed anymore, it was about the others. As their leaders, they needed to keep them going even if there was no hope for the future.

–Because living is preferable to being dead.

Samara listened to these passionate speeches with open ears. Both had a point and both were as fucked in the head as she believed. The marshal didn't want to hear these convictions, especially the sheriff's. He seemed so rooted in his belief that it scorched at her heart. It wasn't because the sentimentality of it, but the assurance. It almost made her believe.

And _so_ dangerous it was to believe, it being the first step to damnation. To becoming a good person instead of a survivor.

But none of that mattered right now, because—

The sound of the door squeaking open jolted them out of the trance they had been under. Samara's stomach clenched and her guard instantly went up.

–There were two unknown men standing in the entrance.

"Son of a bitch…They're alive."

The marshal clenched her jaw and assessed them. One of them was fit while the other was portly and both seemed to be in their mid thirties. These two didn't seem to be lacking in nourishment to have been on their own for long and they had no supplied with them, so it meant they were part of a group. The more immediate question was if there were more outside. Being a pessimist, Samara was almost positive.

She didn't like them, from their voice to their appearance. She wanted nothing more than to get rid of them—preferably by machete to the head. Dammit, they remained here for too long!

Green eyes followed the two approaching men which Rick greeted, albeit cautiously. As they sat down—the fat one at the bar and the other at a table—Samara positioned herself on the fat man's left. While a better position would be behind the bar, she needed to be near these two men in case they decided to use their weapons. She doubted Glenn would open fire and Hershel was unarmed, so that left her and the sheriff to deal with any hostile actions. While the two men made themselves comfortable, Rick caught Samara's eyes and she could see his displeasure at having these strangers here. His eyes travelled downwards and focused on her hand still wrapped firmly around her gun. From his pointed look, Samara relaxed her fingers until they slid off the handle.

The two strangers gave all of them a once over, but their eyes lingered on the Native. The look did not escape the sheriff and the urge to put as much distance between his people and these men was far greater.

The fit one introduced himself as Dave and the fat one as Tony. From their accents they were from around the New York area. Glenn, like the overactive puppy that he was, introduced himself with a big smile on his face. Now, Samara couldn't blame him for being happy at meeting new people, but that didn't mean he had to be so comfortable about it. They knew nothing about the two men and they put on a much too friendly approach for Samara's taste.

Rick introduced himself just out of necessity as well as Hershel, but when Tony's eyes turned to Samara with what he probably considered to be a friendly smile, she narrowed her eyes.

"What about you, sweetheart?"

It took a tremendous amount of effort not to retort snappishly. Having dealt with so many outlaws she had become accustomed to hearing pet names and lewd remarks, but they've never failed to piss her off.

"…Samara."

"That's a pretty name. You're an Indian, right?"

"No, I'm Native American. Indians are from India."

The man's brows furrowed and before he could address her again, Rick interrupted and took over the conversation. When Dave took out his gun, Samara almost did the same as her adrenaline spiked. The man was only showing it to the sheriff—more like bragging about it—but Samara got the feeling that he was announcing to the group that he was also armed. Rick was of the same mind as he did not seem amused by the fact that the man's gun was a cop's.

"You fellas are a long way from Philadelphia." Rick said as he looked between the men casually. "What drove you south?"

Dave explained how they wanted to stop in DC since they heard of a refugee camp there, but the roads were so jammed that it wasn't worth it. Since then they've been on the road, siphoning off rumors from other survivors. When the question was turned on them, Rick was the one that answered.

"Fort Benning, eventually."

"I hate to piss in your cornflakes, officer, but... We ran across a grunt who was stationed at Benning. He said the place was overrun by lamebrains."

_What a surprise…,_ Samara thought sarcastically.

"Wait, Fort Benning is gone?" Glenn's eyes shifted from one man to the other looking for confirmation. "Are you for real?"

"Sadly, I am. Oddly, the truth is there is no way out of this mess. Just keep going from one pipe dream to the next, praying one of these mindless freaks doesn't grab a hold of you when you sleep."

"If you sleep." Tony mumbled tiredly.

Dave then took an assessment of the group, his eyes flickering swiftly between them. Rick and Samara noticed that his focus was more on the weapons on all of them. Green and blue clashed and without words the two lawmen conveyed the one thought that stood on the forefront of their minds.

_This was not going to end well._

"It doesn't look like you guys are hanging your hats here. You holed up somewhere else?" Dave asked nonchalantly as if questioning the weather.

Silence befell the people in the bar.

This was it. The calm before the storm. If there were any doubts before, it was real now. These men were marauders.

And in Samara's eyes, their fate was sealed.

—They were never leaving this bar alive. She would make sure of it.

"Not really." Rick replied with a poker face.

"Those your cars out front?"

"Yeah." Glenn answered unknowingly. "Why?"

"We're living in ours. Those look kinda empty, clean. Where's all your gear?" His voice still held that open tone, but the underline was that of a predator with its prey.

"We're with a larger group out scouting, thought we could take a break." Samara answered stonily.

"Well, we're thinking of setting up around here. Is it safe?"

"It can be, although I have killed a couple of walkers around here." Glenn said with a hint of pride.

"Walkers? That what you call them? I like that. Better than lamebrains, anyways." The man looked between Rick and Samara, the two obvious strong points in the little group. "So what, you guys set up on the outskirts or something? Got a farm or something?"

While Dave was asking, Tony got off his chair and traveled across the room, where he unceremoniously unzipped his pants and took a piss against one of the wooden beams. Rick grimaced at the man's tactlessness and Samara almost threw a bottle at the fat bastard. The stench coupled with the noise made her want to gag.

"You got food? Any water?" When Rick or the other adults didn't answer, his gaze turned to Glenn whom he perceived as the weakest link. "So, Glenn…"

"You ask too many questions." Samara said curtly, her voice razor thin. She's had enough of the man's persistence.

Dave paused for a second, before the friendly façade was back in place. "I'm a curious guy. We haven't seen new faces in quite some time."

"And I'm a suspicious person." Samara's tone dropped a few degrees, any semblance of civility gone. "It's none of your business if we're holed up somewhere or on the road."

"Come on doll, don't be like that." Tony said as he finished pissing and tucked himself back in his pants. "We're just being friendly."

"Yeah. I mean, this farm... it sounds pretty sweet." Dave said. "How about a little Southern hospitality? We got some buddies back at camp, been having a real hard time. I don't see why you can't make room for a few more. We can pool our resources, our manpower."

"Look, I'm sorry. That's not an option." Rick intervened having heard enough. He didn't like where this was going. The situation could get out of hand and from the way Samara was glaring, it could happen at any moment.

"Doesn't sound like it'd be a problem."

"We said no." Samara's hand moved closer to one of her thigh guns.

"Sorry, we can't take in any more." Hershel said, his tone cool and his blues wary.

Dave guffawed in amused annoyance. "You guys are something else. I thought... I thought we were friends. We got people we gotta look out for too."

"We don't know anythin' about you." Rick said without a hint of remorse. He really didn't care if they had problems, because he had his own plethora of shit to deal with.

"No, that's true. You don't know anything about us." Dave's voice lost the friendly tone and a harder edge slipped in. "You don't know what we've had to go through out there, the things we've had to do. I bet you've had to do some of those same things yourself. Am I right?" You could tell by the cold gleam in his eyes that he wasn't joking. "'Cause ain't nobody's hands clean in what's left of this world. We're all the same. So come on, let's... let's take a nice friendly hayride to this farm and we'll get to know each other."

"That's not gonna happen." The sheriff's tone was absolute.

"This is bullshit!" The fat one's patience ran dry.

"Calm down." Rick narrowed his eyes one the man.

"Don't tell me to calm down. Don't ever tell me to calm down!" The moment Tony took a step towards Rick was when both lawmen sprang into action. Rick faced the man, ready for a confrontation, while Samara took a step closer to Dave, her grip on her gun. "I'll shoot you four assholes in the head and take your damn farm!"

"Whoa whoa whoa, relax. Take it easy." Dave rose from his chair, trying to placate his companion and diffuse the tense situation. "Nobody's killing anybody. Right, Rick?"

Samara instantly took a few steps closer to Rick when Dave climbed over the bar, her eyes never leaving Tony. When Rick gripped the handle of his gun was when Tony gripped his. A quick look between the lawmen confirmed that it was going to end up in a shootout.

Samara's gaze slithered to Tony as affirmation that she'll watch Rick's back and kill the fat one if he so much as raised his gun. Rick nodded slightly and his icy blues settled on Dave, the same intent in mind.

—Distantly, Samara reflected on how easily their thought patterns related and their actions flowed. It was like back at the creek.

"Look. We're just friends having a drink. That's all." Dave slowly placed his gun on the counter in a peaceful gesture. To Rick it only meant that he would have access to his gun more quickly. "Now where's the good stuff, huh? Let's see."

Dave's sudden movement had Rick grab hold of his gun. He didn't know what was underneath the bar top, for all he knew there was a shotgun there. Dave slowly picked up a bottle and placed it on the bar, not unaware of the sheriff's tension.

"You gotta understand... we can't stay out there. You know what it's like."

"Yeah, we do. And we don't give a shit." Samara growled as she eyed the fat one's movements like a hawk. While she felt vulnerable with her back open, she was confident that Rick would protect her, even if it meant with his life. Hero's were like that.

"The farm is too crowded as is. I'm sorry. You'll have to keep lookin'."

"Where do you suggest we do that?"

"…I hear Nebraska's nice."

Under normal circumstances Samara would have laughed at such a flat delivery since it was right in her alley, but considering the situation it would be out of place.

Dave laughed menacingly. "Nebraska. This guy."

In that moment, it felt like time slowed down to a snail's pace. Samara could practically hear hers and Rick's breathing as well as the beat of her heart accelerating with the rush of adrenaline. It took only a fraction of a second for their eyes to connect and seal the men's fate, but Samara could have sworn that it took hours. She could see the initial hesitance in Rick's blues, he was about to kill a man after all, but it didn't deter him as he knew there was no other option.

—It was kill or be killed, and Rick had no desire to die today.

Dave never got the chance to touch his gun as two bullets ripped through his chest and skull, his dead body falling somewhere behind the bar. Tony, in shock and fear, fumbled with his shotgun, practically offering himself on a silver platter to the marshal's bullet.

From the force of the bullet, Tony was thrown against the wall and, like in the movies, slowly slid to the ground leaving a trail of crimson red behind him. Pupils dilated like saucers, Samara advanced on the barely alive Tony and shot him in the head, releasing all the pent up anger at the two men.

—It was almost like a choreographed dance the way Rick and Samara's movements paralleled. One for the sole purpose of bringing death.

Without an ounce of respect, Samara spat on the man's corpse showing the same courtesy he showed her and the rest of the group.

Feeling her breath return to normal, Samara checked on Rick. He had the same cold expression as her, but unlike Samara's angry one, his was detached. She approached him with silent steps and focused on his point of attention—Dave was slumped on the ground, eyes wide open with blood pooling underneath his head. Samara could see the location of the bullet's entrance in his forehead and the blood and grey liquid that seeped from out of it.

Glenn and Hershel both approached the two lawmen, looking around at the bloody mess they had created.

"Holy shit…" Glenn looked at the dead bodies with wide, terrified eyes. The shock of what happened was still fresh to his psyche. Hershel seemed disconnected, but that was probably the alcohol affecting him.

Rick then turned to Samara and his penetrating stare almost made the marshal fumble. "You were right."

Confusion befell her. _Right about what? _There were many things she had told him over the weeks.

"Let's head back." The events of today had tired Hershel more than the sixty years he had lived through.

"Agreed." Samara said urgently. She will question the sheriff later on his statement. "Those shots will attract walkers and who knows how many others were with these two. They won't be happy when they find out their buddies are dead."

Rick nodded, his expression hard. "Glenn, check the doors, see if anyone is out there."

Glenn slowly made his way to the front exit while Rick and Samara collected the two men's weapons. The young Korean never got close enough as the bar was illuminated by headlights and the sound of an engine broke the spectrum.

"Get down!" Rick hissed as he ran to the doors, crouching underneath the windows.

Samara and Hershel joined them and listened further to the screech of tires and the opening of doors. With each step closer, the group's already frazzled nerves deteriorated.

"Dave? Tony?" A man whispered. "They said over here?"

"Yeah."

"I'm telling you, man, I heard shots." This time a third one spoke.

"I saw roamers, two streets over. They might be more around there."

Samara lifted three fingers at the sheriff. There were three men outside and by their tone of voice, they were young.

As the three men spoke, Samara's thoughts were going a hundred miles per hour, hatching one plan after another. They could either leave the bar without alerting the three other men of their presence and get to their car, or kill the three men. Samara was of the killing them option since it was much more effective for the future. But if walkers were about then leaving in the cover of the dark would be the best option.

"What should we do?" Hershel whispered to Rick.

It took a moment for the sheriff to answer, his mind also processing the many options they had. "We'll wait for now. See what they do."

"I think we should pick them off one by one. Leave no survivors." Samara said instinctively as she peeked through the window, watching the men walk down the lane.

"Hell. No." Glenn whispered impulsively. "I don't want to kill anyone!"

The marshal gave him a cool side glance. "Since when did we have a choice to begin with?"

"We'll only resort to that if we have no other option, but right now we sit tight." Rick placated the scared young man.

"What will that accomplish?" The woman spat hoarsely. "Even if we leave, they'll still know someone _alive_ was here since they'll have their dead comrades to prove it." Her chilly greens returned to the windows. "We need to kill them for our survival."

"I said _no_."

Samara gave the man a once over and decided not to quarrel with him. She didn't know what state of mind he was in now—probably not a good one—and she didn't want to push him.

"Fine. We'll wait."

* * *

Half an hour had passed since the men started searching for their now dead comrades and Samara was at the end of her patience.

She wasn't the only one as even Glenn was fidgeting like a hamster on steroids. "Why won't they leave?"

"Would you?" Hershel quipped knowingly.

"The longer we stay here the more chances they'll have at finding us." Samara told the sheriff anxiously. They needed to leave right now. Never mind the living, but if walkers surrounded them…

Rick nodded, unable to stay put any longer. "Let's head out the back and make a run to the car."

Before they could even make one step, gunshots rang, effectively stopping they're little getaway plan. Samara counted the shot as one coming from a rifle by the sound of it.

"What happened?"

"Roamers, I nailed 'em." The youngest of the trio answered.

"They disappeared but their car's still there."

"I cleared those buildings. You guys get this one?"

"…No."

"Me neither."

"We're looking for Dave and Tony and no one checks the damn bar?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Samara groaned as she steadied her handgun. Stony eyes settled on Rick and he knew that she would do as she pleased regardless of his decision. "We're killing them."

Rick didn't even have to answer as he had his gun ready.

When the door got pushed open was the moment Glenn had the grand idea to throw himself against it, effectively saving the men's lives and announcing their presence. If they weren't in such a predicament, Samara would have beaten the Korean bloody.

"Someone pushed the door shut." One of the men said after a stunned second. "There's someone in there."

"Yo, is someone in there? If someone's in there, we don't want no trouble. We're just looking for our friends."

When no one responded the strangers started talking among themselves.

"What do we do? Bum rush the door?"

While to the others that seemed a horrible idea, to Samara it was a great one. Form the force of barging against the doors they would stumble and give her and the others enough time to shoot them down.

"No, we don't know how many are there. Just relax."

_Dammit…_

"We don't want any trouble. We're just looking for our friends. If something happened, tell us. This place is crawling with corpses. If you can help us not get killed, I'd appreciate it."

Neither of the occupants of the bar answered, the anxiety tightening their vocal cords.

"Dude, you're bugging. I'm telling you nobody's in there."

"Someone guard the door. If they're in there, they might know where Dave and Tony are."

Samara didn't know what cosmic force made her avert her gaze to the sheriff but once she saw the look on his face she just knew that he would do something _utterly_ stupid.

"They drew on us!" Rick shouted for the men to hear.

"The fuck is wrong with you?!" Samara whispered harshly. Even Hershel stared in disbelief at Rick's foolishness.

Footsteps returned and the African-American was the one that asked. "Dave and Tony in there? They alive?"

"…No." Rick answered after a hard deliberation possibly sealing their fate to another shootout. And this time who knew if they would come out alive.

Immediately the buzzing of whispers broke between the men. "They killed Dave and Tony."

"Come on, man, let's go."

"I suggest you three fuck off if you don't want to join your friends in the afterlife." Samara growled at them as she cocked her gun for effect.

"…Fuck this, I'm not leaving, I'm not telling Jane. I'm not gonna go back and tell them that Dave and Tony got shot by some assholes in a bar!"

"Your friends drew on us!" Rick suddenly shouted startling the inhabitants of the bar. "They gave us no choice! I'm sure we've all lost enough people, done things we wish we didn't have to, but it's like that now." If it wasn't for a self-restraint of steel, Samara would have rolled her eyes at the desperate speech. "You know that! So let's just chalk this up to what it was, wrong place, wrong—"

The men opening fire was the answer to Rick's plea. Everyone ducked as shards of glass flew overhead and the shotgun blasts deafened them.

"Fuck this!" Samara spat as she picked herself up and started shooting. Rick was not far behind as he opened fire alongside the Native.

"Get outta here! Go!" The sheriff shouted at the others as he and Samara held their ground.

Glenn and Hershel ran towards a safer position, behind the piano and the bar. They couldn't run any further as the bullets obstructed their escape. They knew that and Rick knew that as desperation grew inside him.

Both lawmen ducked for cover once they ran out of bullets.

"Got anymore cheesy speeches in mind?" Samara quipped nastily, her attention on reloading her gun and not on the sheriff.

The look Rick gave her could freeze hell.

"Hey!" Rick started shouting once he finished loading his gun. "We all know this is not gonna end well! There's nothin' in it for any of us! You guys just—just back off and no one else gets hurt!"

Silence was what greeted them. Samara strained her ears so she could hear even if a pin dropped but she did not expect noise coming from the back of the bar. It sounded like someone knocked over heavy objects.

"The back." Samara whispered at Rick and he nodded to Glenn to go check it out.

With reluctance the Korean disappeared behind the door. The three left behind waited with baited breath for any sign of safety from the man, but what they got instead raised their alarms faster than a speeding car.

—A gunshot.

Rick shouted after the Korean. If it wasn't for Samara holding him back he would have bolted through the back door.

"I'm all right! I'm all right!"

"What the fuck is he doing back there?" Samara whispered, her attention divided between the outside and Glenn.

Rick shook his head and looked between the street and the back door and decided. "We need to get to Hershel."

Without questioning him, Samara moved and followed the sheriff to Hershel's position. Samara kept her eyes on the door and street while Rick spoke with Hershel.

"Samara and I'll hold 'em here. You cover Glenn. See if you can make it to your car. Tell him to pull up back. We'll run for it, get the hell out of here."

"You want _me_ to cover Glenn?" The disbelief in the old man's voice was rather understandable.

"Maybe I should go." Samara said as she doubted the old man's abilities to keep Glenn safe.

"Nah, I'll go." The farmer said as he cocked his gun. "I can shoot. I just don't like to."

Both lawmen watched as Hershel disappeared behind the door and into the shadows.

"Crafty old goat, isn't he?" Samara mused with a small smirk.

Rick and Samara returned to the front of the store, each in a cover position. Peeking over the shattered window, Samara spotted one of the men hiding behind a car. Aiming towards him she took a shot only for it to hit the hood of the car.

"Fucking dark. Can't see shit!" The woman hissed as she ducked, hiding from the shower of bullets.

"We need to keep them focused here." Rick said between the bullets he fired from his gun.

Shots came from the back of the bar. The silence that followed worried the two lawmen and Rick was the first to break cover and head for the others. Reluctantly, Samara followed shortly and found Hershel pointing his gun at a howling man a few meters away from them. It seemed he shot the African-American. Looking to the right, she spotted Glenn's feet sticking out from behind a dumpster with Rick carefully closing up on him.

Samara's breath hitched as her stomach clenched tightly. _Was he…?_

Her worries were placated the moment she heard the young man's whispers. Samara was glad that Glenn was still among the living, but that didn't mean he was forgiven.

"Hey." Rick's hushed voiced reached their ears. "We're gonna go ahead. Clear the path. You two join up on my mark."

Samara gave a thumbs-up and waited patiently. They watched as Rick and Glenn shot out of their hiding place only to be greeted by bullets. Returning behind the cover of the dumpster, they scouted the area and found the source of the gunshots. Rick signaled to Samara that someone was on the roof on the other side. Samara slid lowly along the wall opposite the dumpsters until she reached the point she could see the man—boy—atop the building.

"What are you doing?" Glenn hissed at her, worry evident in his eyes.

Samara didn't justify his question with an answer as she thought her next actions would be rather obvious. The marshal ignored the sheriff's warnings and aligned her rifle to the young man. During this time, the other man arrived in a white truck, howling at the boy to get inside so they could leave since walkers were closing up on them.

_Shit. I knew it._

The marshal gritted her teeth and watched the young man prepare to jump the rooftop on to the other. Aiming, Samara was seconds away from blowing his head off. Before the boy could propel his feet from the side of the roof, the marshal pulled the trigger. The bullet landed in the exact location he was going to place his foot that was going to give him the push to jump, making the boy trip and fall off the roof (_Goddammit, I missed!_). The terrified teen hit a segment of a smaller part of the roof and fell. Neither of them could see where he landed since the truck was blocking their view but it didn't take a genius to guess what happened to him since the boy started shrieking in pain.

The man in the truck didn't waste any time and floored the car, getting as fast as the vehicle allowed out of the small town. Not even the cries and pleas of his partner could deter him from his path.

Samara snorted._ So much for camaraderie…._

"Get Hershel." Rick spoke to Glenn and Samara and took off in the direction of the impaired stranger.

"Hershel, let's go!" Glenn shouted as he watched walkers descend upon the wounded African-American.

When Hershel aligned his gun to put the injured man out of his misery and not be subjected to the walkers bite, Samara pushed the barrel away. "You'll only waste bullets. Besides, he'll keep the walkers occupied."

Hershel gave the woman a long critical look. "…You have a very dark mind."

Hershel turned away from her and Samara couldn't see the despairing expression on his face as he chose to listen to the marshal and leave the man to a gruesome fate. Once she and Hershel joined Glenn and herself, they ran towards the car.

"Where's Rick?" The older man asked looking each direction for walkers.

"He ran across." Glenn said as his eyes searched for the man in question and located him near a metal railing. "There he is!"

Samara was the first to catch up to the sheriff and she wished she hadn't because with just one look her anger rose to a dangerous level.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Samara bellowed as she watched Rick attempt to free the boy. When he fell the boy's leg was pierced by the sharp end of the railing leaving him stuck atop a dumpster.

–Even after these assholes shot at them, Grimes still had to act like the good cop.

"We have to go now." Hershel urgently spoke as cold sweat trickled down his forehead. When the boy's cries turned to pleas of aid, the older man gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, son."

"We have to get the hell out of here!" Samara hissed as she gripped Rick by the arm, turning his attention on her. "Fuck him." She glowered at the kid, not an ounce of pity for his situation.

"We can't just leave him!"

"He was just shooting at us!" Glenn shouted indignantly.

_Finally, he makes sense…_

"He's a kid!" Rick shouted, begging to be understood.

"This place is crawling with walkers!" Glenn shouted back, his panic rising by the second and in turn making him angrier.

"The fence went clean through. There's no way we can get the leg off in one piece." Hershel said as he inspected the injury, his pocking and prodding making the boy scream out in pain. The older man shook his head, seeing no way to do this without possibly killing the boy. "We're not gonna get that leg off without tearin' the muscle to shreds. He certainly can't run. He may bleed out."

"Then let's kill him and be done with this." Samara hissed as she eyed the streets and building corners for walkers. Hearing this, the boy started begging for his life, snot and drool dribbling down his face.

Rick narrowed his eyes. "No—"

"I agree." Both lawmen were surprised to hear those words coming out of Hershel. "I don't wanna see any more killin', but this is cruel."

"Can't we just take the leg off?" Glenn suggested, wanting to be done with this situation.

That seemed to bring the other two men to a pause, but Samara was still of the same mind.

"No, no, don't..." The boy panted as he pleaded with them. It was a terrible idea from his perspective. "Don't cut my leg off, please. Please, not my leg!"

Samara made an indignant noise at the back of her throat when she felt her machete being removed from her belt.

Rick was presenting her machete to Hershel. "Use this."

The older man sighed, dreading what was to come. "I'll have to sever the ligaments below the kneecap, cut above the tibia. He's gonna lose his lower leg." He spoke as he took off his shirt and grabbed the machete. "When we get clear of here, we're gonna have to find some tinder, cauterize the wound so he doesn't bleed out."

"This has to be the most retarded thing _you_ people have ever done." Samara ran her palm over her face. She wasn't even annoyed or angry anymore, she was in that state were disbelief just numbed you out.

"Samara, you and Glenn keep watch." Rick said as he took off his shirt and tied it around the teen's upper leg.

With resigned dread, Samara readied her rifle and watched as walkers appeared out of the darkened forest. Glenn cursed lowly and urged the others to hurry. When they got closer, both Samara and Glenn opened fire, but it seemed as if there was no end to the swarm that was gathering.

Samara heard Rick open fire from the other side. They were getting flanked by all sides.

"Fuck this! We have to go now!" The marshal's survival instincts flared like a bonfire. She swore that if they weren't coming with her right _now_, she would take the car and leave them behind. She caught Hershel by the arm and yanked him away from chopping the teen's leg off. "There's no time! Leave him!"

Hershel offered no resistance as he also saw it as a hopeless case. Both adults ran to the family van with Glenn right on their heels.

"Come on, Rick!" Glenn shouted as he fired another round into a walker.

When she couldn't hear his steps behind her, Samara turned in the exact moment Rick yanked the boy's leg right off the fence pike.

"Help me!"

Rick's voice propelled Glenn back and Samara watched as they worked together to get the boy off the dumpster. Because of the bolt of searing pain, the young man passed out and it was now, thankfully, quiet. With a growl, Samara ran back to Rick and Glenn to provide cover as they carried the unconscious teen to the car.

"Goddammit, Rick! Just drop him!" Samara screeched as she shot a walker in the head. Now she wouldn't admit it, but in this moment Samara was actually afraid. There were too many walkers and the injured teen was slowing them down.

"No!"

Not a second later, Glenn stumbled out of sheer anxiety and dropped the boy's upper body. "Shit!"

"I've had enough of this."

Without a hitch in breath, Samara pointed her rifle towards the boy's head, moments away from getting rid of the complication. And she would have done it, if it weren't for the fact that a silver barrel was pointed straight at her.

Seconds felt liked eons as Samara's stunned eyes slid to the sheriff. He was aiming his gun right at her temple. The only thought circling round and round in her mind was that Rick was threatening _her_ over a _stranger_.

—For the first time in months, Samara felt an emotion she didn't think she would ever experience again: betrayal.

"Put the rifle away."

"Jesus Christ, seriously?!" Glenn shouted as he witnessed the clash between the two. "We have walkers on our ass and you two do this?!"

Rick was the first one to move his gun, but his arctic eyes never left the Native. The marshal swallowed croakily and moved her rifle away from the boy. Without a word she turned from the sheriff and started picking off walkers. Right now, she needed something to distract her from the jumbled mess inside of her.

In the seconds Rick held his gun to her head, the sheriff registered the rapid flashes of emotion that morphed her expression and was genuinely sorry to have caused it. It wasn't everyday he saw the stoic marshal actually distraught.

At this point Hershel joined her and they both cleared the path for the car, shooting as many walkers as they could. Glenn and Rick got a hold of the boy and delivered him safely to the car. Once they were all inside, Samara signaled for Hershel to get in the passenger side.

Shooting off her last round, Samara shouldered her rifle and raced to the driver seat. Inside, she wasted no time in turning on the engine and bolting out of that small town making the tires screech like banshees.

Only when she could no longer see the buildings with walkers shambling after the car did she relax in her seat. The only sounds that could be heard in the interior of the car were their heavy breathing, and for each, the erratic beating of their own hearts.

"Is he dead?" Hershel was the first to break the edgy silence. His breathing was hard and wheezing, the events of the last hour having exhausted someone of his age.

"I think he passed out." Rick said as he checked the young man's pulse.

The boy was lying across both Glenn and Rick's lap, with Glenn holding his head and shoulders and Rick his legs.

"Hold his leg elevated. It'll stop the bleedin' from gettin' too severe." Hershel instructed as he turned in his seat to check the boy's pulse. It was low, as expected of someone in his position, but not life-threatening yet. "We need to get to the farm right now if you want him to—"

Without warning, Samara suddenly turned in her seat and started beating Glenn with one hand, hitting whatever part of him she could reach. With an uncharacteristic curse, Hershel took hold of the wheel and kept the car steady on the road.

"What the hell?! Stop hitting me!" Glen shouted as he held his arms up to defend himself from the onslaught. Rick tried to catch her hand, only to be slapped across the face by said appendage.

"You stupid little shit!" Samara snarled, her face scrunched up in an ugly manner. "Why the hell did you block the door?! We could have killed them and be on our way, but you just had to be a fucking _good guy_ and alert them to our presence! And now we have this bleeding idiot on our hands!"

"Samara, enough!" Rick finally managed to catch her flailing hand and contain it in a vice like grip.

"I couldn't do it, alright!" Glenn shouted back, tears pooling at his lower lids. The events of the last hour finally hit him and the stress and relief of it was coming out in the form of waterworks. "I couldn't just let you guys kill them! We already killed two, wasn't it enough?! I thought…"

"You thought what?"

Glenn turned his head away and muttered meekly. "…I didn't think those guys were going to shoot at us."

"Well you thought wrong, didn't you?"

Samara took a deep breath and turned her upper body back to the front, her hand joining the other on the steering wheel. Hershel let out the breath that he was holding and flopped against his seat tiredly. Glenn lowered himself in his seat with his head turned to the window, no doubt being troubled by his thoughts.

"Samara, don't ever do that again." Rick gripped the back of the driver's seat, his fingers making indents in the material. "Keep your eyes—"

"Don't you lecture _me_." The only description the people inside the car could label her voice was that of a rattled snake. It was low and hissing, ready to lash out again if they so much as said the wrong word.

Stony olive eyes found Rick in the rearview mirror. "I suggest you don't speak to me right now."

The sheriff backed off once he read the obvious signs of fury that were emanating from the marshal. She was doing a good job of containing them—except for that one lapse with Glenn—and Rick had no intention of distracting her since she was driving.

Grimes knew that he was the cause of the majority of her anger and let her be.

* * *

**Foot Note**: Wuuhuu, I actually finished this chapter! I don't like it all that much since I feel like I rushed it. I guess I just wanted to have it out of the way so I could move on.

As always, reviews and constructive criticisms are always beneficial, and the author would love it if you wrote some.

**PS:** Has anyone played the Walking Dead game? The one with Lee and Clementine? If you haven't, I suggest trying it out at once. It's freaking awesome! (despite the occasional fire-breathing, throwing-your-monitor-out-the-window bugs) Too bad I can't find the last episode from season 2 . I have to watch it on youtube like a dope.


	14. Broken Alliances

**Author's Note:** Well I'll be damned…I actually updated within a reasonable amount of time. What can I say, my fingers have been on…FAAAAYYYAAAA!

*Ahem*

Now back to serious business. Do enjoy this chapter. I've decided to deviate a little from cannon and write up my own little filler chapter or chapter_s_. It's not gonna be long (I hope), about 2-3 chapters and then back to the timeline.

It's just the start of a little Samara/Daryl bonding that has been long overdue.

Also I think some of you are gonna be pissed at me for a section of this chapter. Don't care, had to write it. I know, I'm evil. }:))

Happy Easter, y'all!

**All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**

* * *

It took half an hour for Samara and the others to reach the farm. Halfway there, the boy woke up and caused a commotion, prompting the occupants of the car to tie, blindfold and gag him up. After securing the boy up like a Thanksgiving turkey, he began squirming, his bound arms and legs dumping against Rick and Glenn. The movement only served to annoy the two men and piss off the already angry driver.

—Needless to say, no one was happy when the marshal hit the kid over the head with the butt of her handgun effectively knocking him out cold.

But, minutes before the marshal's drastic measures, they did learn that the kid's name was Randall.

Samara watched as the illuminated windows of the farmhouse came into view and stopped just a few meters from the front steps. The sound of the engine alerted the others to their arrival and not even a minute later, Rick's and Hershel's people emerged from inside the house with flashlights in hand.

Samara remained in the car and watched as the men left to join their loved ones. Maggie practically flew into Glenn's arms, passing her father without a glance.

"Dad! You're okay!" Carl broke away from his mother and clutched at his father's waist like a baby koala. Rick ruffled his son's hair before embracing his wife.

Ignoring his daughter's rebuttal, Hershel marched towards the house without breaking stride. "Patricia, prepare the shed for surgery."

In her confusion, Patricia searched the men for any obvious injuries.

It was then Samara stepped out of the car and was assaulted by a happy four-legged animal. Alistair was pawing at her legs, running in circles around her and barking madly while his tail wagged like no tomorrow. The marshal leaned over after a long deliberation and scratched the dog behind the ears to appease his worries.

"You actually missed me, huh?" The Native whispered softly.

Her good mood was broken when her thoughts zeroed down on their unwanted guest. Eyes narrowing into slits, she decided to take Randall to the shed where Hershel will work his medical skills on him.

"Glenn, come help me with him." She pointed towards the back seat of the car. The young Korean nodded with a resigned sigh and disentangled from Maggie's warm embrace.

Opening the car door, she grabbed the unconscious Randall by the armpits and dragged him out of the car, making enough movement to alert some of the others.

T-Dog was the first to notice the anomaly. "Who the hell is that?"

Light illuminated the tied up kid and Samara practically heard everyone hold their breaths in awe.

"This is Randall." Glenn huffed as he took a hold of said man's legs and raised him from the ground.

Some of the others approached the unconscious form and looked over him as if he was an alien come down to earth. Granted, they couldn't see much of the kid since it was night and he was dirty and tied up, but they still gathered around like sheep.

Not a moment passed that the area exploded with questions like an erupting volcano. Who was he? Where did he come from? Is he going to die? Who did this to him? Is he dangerous?

"Was he bit?" Andrea asked as she noticed his bloodied leg.

"The sheriff will explain, because I sure as hell can't…" Samara said as she backtracked towards the shed. Alistair, not wanting to be apart from his owner again, followed.

"I could really use some light here." The marshal stressed. She really couldn't see where she was going, only instinctually guiding herself by where she remembered the shed was located. The night sky offered no light as the moon hid behind thick clouds and the stars shied away from showing themselves.

Jimmy was the first to step up and take the front, guiding the procession with a long-distance flashlight.

"Patricia, could you go up ahead and do as Hershel asked?" Samara asked out, irritated that the woman was just standing there like a statue instead of moving.

Waking up from her stupor, the elder sister jumped into action and caught up to Jimmy's long strides.

When some of the others wanted to follow—mainly Shane and Andrea—Rick waved them off, telling them to go back inside as he will clarify everything. Miraculously, his people actually listened.

The four of them along with Alistair reached the shed with no problems and they had to wait a few minutes until Jimmy and Patricia cleared up the surgical table Hershel used for animals and moved it into the center of the building.

After dumping the unconscious Randall none to gently and tying him up to the gurney, Samara washed her hands of him. Without a look behind, the marshal left the shed with Alistair on her heels. Grass crunched behind her as Glenn and Jimmy appeared alongside her. The Native didn't even slow down when Hershel hurriedly passed by with his surgical bag.

"This is bad, isn't it?" Glenn asked nervously once they reached the porch. Jimmy had gone inside wanting to hear the story of the strange teen's appearance.

Seeing that the marshal wasn't going to respond, Glenn entered the house despondently. Samara stood in front of the door like an unmovable mountain. Gone were her thoughts, her mind swallowed in numbing static. Not even Alistair's tentative prodding couldn't shake her up.

If anyone had looked out the window at this moment, they would think that Samara had fallen asleep…That or she had a stroke standing upright.

There was nothing circling in the Native's mind. No plans, no words, no images. Just an annoying sound on loop, the one you hear after your ears pop from a high altitude.

This was the culmination of everything that had happened today. The pile of shit had grown to such proportions that her brain just shut down to preserve her psyche. Samara was actually amazed she hadn't lost a fuse today. It wasn't like she wasn't entitled to one, but she had managed to contain it with only a few minor slips.

_Gods, I need a cigare—_

"Fuck!"

Startled, the marshal kicked out when she suddenly felt something bite her leg. The pained howl that followed made her aware that Alistair gently bit her leg to garner her attention. Knowing that he didn't mean any harm, the shock of it still made it feel like he stapled through her skin.

"Dammit, you stupid mutt! Why the hell did you do that?" She whispered harshly at the dog who curled up on himself, looking at her with sad eyes.

"Shit…" The Native sighed and ran a worn-out hand through her grimy hair. Crouching low, she petted the animal gently and rubbed the spot where she inadvertently kicked him. "Sorry. I've had a fucked up day."

Alistair licked her hand in response and followed her inside when she finished indulging him.

"What do we do with him?"

Samara heard Andrea ask as she stepped into the dining area. Everyone, except for Hershel and Patricia was seated at the table or standing near it, nervous or afraid or angry of this new development. It seemed Samara had been gone long enough for Rick to retell the events of more than two hours ago.

"When he's better we give him a canteen, take him out to the main road and send him on his way." Rick answered after a slight pause. His eyes had followed Samara to the other end of the room where she leaned against the wall, arms crossed and determinately ignoring him.

Andrea's brows furrowed. "Isn't that the same as leaving him for the walkers?"

"He'll have a fightin' chance."

A scoff broke out in the room, earning the marshal some odd looks from the others. Samara pursed her lips and decided not to verbalize her thoughts on Rick's idiotic plan. What was the point anyways? It was like talking to a wall.

But how she wished she could howl and rage at him. Punch him repeatedly for being such an idiot. For not even considering listening to her. Not even _once_.

"Just gonna let him go?" Shane was the first to voice out the obvious question. "He knows where we are."

"He was unconscious the whole way here. He's not a threat."

The man scoffed mockingly. "Not a threat…How many of them were there? You killed three of their men, you took one of them hostage, but they just ain't gonna come lookin'?"

"They left him for dead." Rick snapped back at him. "No one is lookin'."

"We should still post a guard." T-Dog said reasonably. The way he saw it Shane had a point. Who's to say the kid's people won't want revenge?

"He's out cold right now, could be for hours." Glenn supplemented as he looked between the two Kentucky lawmen.

"We'll that just puts me at ease." Shane spat sarcastically at the younger man. Glenn averted his gaze, interiorizing himself.

The deputy's angry glare then turned to the marshal. "Why the hell did you go along with this? I know you're not stupid enough to think bringin' someone here is a good idea. Why didn't you stop this?"

Samara just stared blankly at the man before slowly pushing off the wall and walking away. She was too tired to fight and that was what Shane wanted right now.

When she passed the sheriff, Rick made the mistake of grabbing her arm—he didn't like the way she was just ghosting around, silent like a wraith. Also, they had to speak one-on-one after that whole ordeal. Just enough to clear the air.

—The force with which she yanked her arm away almost threw the man off.

A beat. Two.

Both marshal and sheriff stared each other off, forgetting that they were in a room full with people, their attention solely on one another. The woman glowered at him with such antagonism that Rick felt it like a physical blow. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised if she hit him.

Without a word, Samara continued on her way out with Alistair—who had been hiding underneath the table—right behind her.

Rick let her leave knowing that there was nothing he could do. Samara wanted nothing more to do with him right now and Rick was not rested enough to choose his words wisely for a deep conversation.

But if there was one thing he was certain of, was that the marshal wasn't going to forgive him anytime soon.

* * *

"Come on, you piece of shit!"

Her fingers snapped against the lighter's button for the umpteenth time waiting for the fire to come to life, but instead only weak sparks flied which disappeared as soon as they appeared. With a growl the Native threw the now useless lighter into the bowls of her tent, almost hitting Alistair who nestled himself on a bunch of her clothes.

The cigarette she had wanted to light up was dangling between her lips inadvertently getting covered in spit. After a few beats, the tobacco stick fell out of her mouth and hid somewhere in the ruffles of her sleeping bag.

—Samara didn't care.

With great effort she drew her knees to her chest and draped her arms over them, hiding her face in the space her arms had created.

It was a cool night. The crickets were chirping in harmonious synchronization. There was even a slight breeze in the air and Samara could only think that soon this was all going to be a distant memory.

Dark thoughts clouded her mind and made her sink into the murky pits of her cynicism.

Clothes and objects were strewn all around the ground floor of the tent, Samara having unleashed her anger on them. A small glint caught her eye and it took several minutes for her brain to acknowledge the darkened pieces of paper as photographs. Lethargically, Samara picked up the two photos and clicked on the small camp-lantern she possessed to examine them.

A wave of affection immediately warmed her insides making her olive greens spark up with life.

_How long has it been since I last looked at them?_

The cheerful faces of her father and husband were staring at her, frozen in time. Samara sighed deeply and laid down on her sleeping bag, her eyes never braking contact with the photos.

Gods, how she wished they would still be alive. Her father would have known what to do in this situation and would have gotten it done, no questions asked, and her husband would have provided the physical and emotional support she needed to keep her strength up.

The light footsteps that approached her tent caught the woman's attention. Hiding the photos underneath her sleeping-bag, she waited for the intruder.

Thin, fragile fingers parted the exit flap of the tent and the slim figure of Carol appeared in Samara's vision.

"Hey." Carol whispered as she took a step further into the tent, stopping at an acceptable distance from the marshal.

"I don't want any company right now."

"I just thought you'd want some dinner."

It was then that the delicious smell of mashed potatoes and meatballs hit her olfactory senses. Samara's gaze wandered over to the one thing she missed: the plate of food in Carol's hand. The marshal immediately straightened herself and snatched the plate out of her hands. It was only when presented with food was when her stomach figured out that her body needed nourishing and promptly growled like a bear.

"Thanks." The marshal said as she dug in her food. The mutt was watching her with wide eyes, licking his chops like a starved walker.

—No way in hell she'll give him her food.

"You're welcome." Carol smiled faintly and averted her gaze down. It took a few minutes for her to gather her thoughts and put them into words. "I want to thank you."

Samara peeked at her from underneath her lashes. "You already thanked me once."

"I know, I just want you to know that your effort is appreciated." Carol looked her in the eye. "I also know no one has told you this and they should have."

"I haven't been doing this for the gratitude." Samara said as she swallowed a large portion of a meatball. "I never even expected it in the first place."

"Maybe that's the problem…" The elder woman rubbed her arms to create some warmth. The cool night air wasn't agreeing with her body temperature. "I don't know what goes on in that head of yours and I don't think I want too, but that doesn't mean I don't feel indebted to you."

Samara nodded in understanding and scrutinized the woman. Carol looked haunted, and she reminded the marshal all too much of a different time in her life.

"How do you feel?"

"I'm…" Carol's eyes misted over as she gazed at nothing. It took a few moments for a mockery of life to come back to her expression. "I don't _feel_ anythin'."

"It won't go away, you know?" Samara somberly said as she placed the almost empty plate on the ground. Alistair, like the insatiable animal that he was, dug into it. "It will stay with you for the rest of your life."

"Is this what it felt like when your husband died?"

"That feeling of emptiness, of no hope in sight? Yeah."

The elder woman inhaled sharply as she controlled the tears that threatened to fall. "I feel like…each step I make…each word out of my mouth is not done by me. Like I'm watchin' myself do all these things without any control over my body." Her voice lowered with each word, going down to a whisper. "I've lived my whole life for others, you know. My husband, my little girl, and now…I'm just walkin' this earth without a compass."

Samara stretched her legs out and leaned back onto the material of her tent. "Just make sure you don't lose yourself."

"Would it be that bad?"

"No." The marshal answered nonchalantly. Gods know she's thought about it. Her head then jerked towards the exit of her tent. "But for them, yes."

Carol nodded heavily and examined her fingers absentmindedly. They were speckled with dirt and her fingernails needed trimming. Her skin was rough to the touch and there were small cuts all over her palms from her episode with the grass earlier today.

Just when Samara thought that the woman ran out of words and was now somewhere deep in the recess of her mind was when she spoke again. This time her voice was so void of emotion that it made the marshal uncomfortable.

"When Ed died…I didn't feel sad. I felt angry." Her fingers clenched into tight fists. "Angry that I never got to tell him the things that stood on the tip of my tongue, for never doing anythin' to stop him." Her pale orbs connected with the Native's. "I will regret that for the rest of my life. And I will regret never seein' my daughter grow up, never tell her all the things she needed to know." Once again a heavy sheen blanketed over her eyes. "But…maybe it's better this way. She will remain innocent forever in my memory. I will never have to see her pick up a gun and kill anyone, never have to see her starve to death…Never see her become a cold and terrible person."

"You know what's funny? I can't get this memory out of my mind. Sophia was about eight and I got her this doll for her birthday. She loved it so much, but she always forgot to be careful with it. She broke it within a week. She came to me cryin' rivers of tears, apologizin' all the way." A small smile broke her monotony. "I didn't see what all the fuss was about, the doll could have been easily fixed and I told her that. But she still wouldn't stop cryin'. I managed to calm her down and she asked me to show her how to fix it. She put the doll back together herself and managed to keep it in one piece for months. She was so proud of herself."

The smile slipped away and the lifelessness settled back over. "It's just…such a simple memory. Nothin' that important, but I can't stop thinkin' about it."

The marshal gazed at the woman vacantly, but her mind was anything but.

_You are a pitiful creature…and I'm sorry you had to go through this._

"Keep thinking like that, Carol." Samara croaked softly. "Keep the good memories alive because in the end that's all we have left right now."

The woman nodded and gave her a small smile.

"Goodnight, Samara." She whispered as she left the marshal's tent.

"Goodnight."

Samara remained in the same position for a good ten minutes, replaying the conversation in her mind over and over. Strangely, the talk had helped clear her mind. The anger had become dormant and in its place, a peaceful disposition befell her.

Alistair trotted from his hiding place and curled around the marshal's thigh, setting his head in her lap. Callous fingers threaded through slightly dirty fur.

_What a day…_

* * *

Next morning, the Atlanta group and Samara were gathered around the cooking pit, all except for Shane who was taking the first watch at the shed. No one was speaking much, their thoughts still on the events of last night. Some even sneaked glances to the shed where their _guest_ was.

Tensions were high in the air.

Hershel had told Samara when he returned her machete that he had done the best he could do and that it would take about a week for the boy's leg to heal enough to walk. The marshal really didn't care what happened to the boy. Unless he had a sudden heart attack and died, she didn't want to hear it.

Even her appetite was nonexistent. Where once T-Dog's omelet tasted like heaven, it now felt like ash in her mouth. Groaning, the marshal moved the plate out of her way and slumped in her seat. Her eyes moved from the people and wandered over the grounds without much initiative.

The sun was high in the sky and shined brightly. Samara had to use her aviators the moment she stepped out of her tent, the intensity hurting her eyes. The Native didn't even know what day it was today or if they were even in August anymore. The last time she checked a calendar was before Wiltshire. From her count, she had been with the Atlanta group for almost three weeks now.

_Gods, it feels like months have passed since Wiltshire…_

Sighing deeply, the woman cracked her knuckles. She had lost her last cigarette last night and was now craving one like an addict. She knew who had cigarettes and said man was currently missing from the camp. Samara had noticed in the light of day that his tent was out of the camp's perimeter. Dixon seemed to have exiled himself after the revelation of the girl's undead status.

Another thing she noticed was the bruises and cuts on Lori's face. At first Samara thought that she fought with someone, but then remembered that this was the sheriff's wife she was talking about. The woman would either get Rick or Shane to fight for her in the eventuality.

When her eyes traveled over the cars and the house, she froze. The aviators slowly turned towards the location of the parked cars and noticed an abnormality that set her blood on ice.

—Her Volkswagen was gone.

"Where the hell is my car?" Samara's husky voice broke the silence of the breakfast gathering.

It was funny how the mood turned from worried to extreme uneasiness.

Hearing the question, many of the group averted their eyes, none wanting to inform the marshal of the state of her car. Sharp green eyes flickered from one person to the other until—

"Samara, I'm sorry." Lori said as eyed the woman remorsefully. "I…I wrecked it."

The silence could have been ran through with a knife

"…You what?"

The sheriff's wife sighed and ran her fingers through her hair in slight apprehension. She dreaded the other woman's reaction. "Last night, I went after Rick and all ya'll. I didn't see the walker that was in the middle of the road and I just steered to avoid it and…crashed."

"And you forgot to tell me this last night? Or the moment I woke up?" Knuckles cracked as fingers closed into tight fists.

The movement didn't escape Lori's apprehensive gaze. "I forgot. I'm so sorry, Samara. It was an accident."

While everyone was expecting the Native to start shouting and cursing, or even rush Lori, she stunned them by breaking into laughter. Not an amused one, but a nasally unsettling one.

Alistair, who had been near her chair, ran away when the woman shot out of it, sensing the danger underneath the surface.

"This is un-fucking-believable!" Samara guffawed and moved away from the group. While she was laughing on the outside, she was boiling in the inside. It took all her strength not to jump the sheriff's wife and strangle her, hence why she was going the other direction.

She _really_ couldn't stand looking at the woman right now.

As fast as her laugh came, it ceased and curses were spewed forth instead. The group watched as the woman snarled in a different language that most likely was her native one, Navajo.

Samara shook her head in disbelief, clenching and unclenching her fists, stepping on the uncut grass with heavy determined steps.

The marshal didn't know how long she ranted and walked, because she woke up in the middle of the field with Rick stopping her from advancing.

"Samara, calm down."

She only now realized that her machete was in her hand and that she was hacking away at the tall grass with furious strokes.

Seeing the face of the man that she still held animosity towards just cracked the damn.

"It was my car!" The Native shouted as she threw the machete away. "My car, goddammit! That bitch had no right to take it!"

"It was an accident." Rick tried to placate her. The marshal hadn't noticed but he was actually relieved when she deposited her blade. The sheriff didn't know when her anger would blind her and use it on some_one _this time. Mainly him.

"Accident my ass." The woman paced and forth, waving her arms around in aggravation. "Who gets into a car accident when there's no traffic on the road?! Why didn't she just run the undead fucker over?!"

"I'll find you a different car." Rick's patience was running thin.

"No!" She put her foot down. "You can't just swipe this under the rug like it was nothing. If someone fucks up your property the person in question will have to pay for the damages."

The sheriff paused, just knowing what her mind was focusing on. "What do you want?"

"I want you to kill that kid."

Silence and a heavy frown were her answer.

"Yeah…I didn't think so." The sheriff sleeked her hair down the back of her head and gripped the ends as hard as she could, hoping that the pain would help her step foot on even ground.

Rick waited for her to come back to the real world and look him in the eye. The anger was gone from her olive greens and instead a familiar stony wall was erected, the one she wore back when they first met. "Your wife owes me a car, _sheriff_. And _she_ better get me one, otherwise me and her are going to have _words_. And it isn't going to be pretty."

Pupils dilated and his breath hitched. Rick took a step towards the marshal, his eyes mirroring hers in warning. "Don't threaten my wife."

A cruel smirk split her lips. "What will you do? Put a gun to my head?"

The memory of that instant halted the sheriff's temper and, again, he made the mistake of reaching out to her. "Samara, I—"

The sheriff didn't expect the following sequence of events.

Faster than he had thought her capable, Samara grabbed his arm and jerked him forward with all her strength. Hooking her foot around the ankle, the marshal swiped Rick's legs from underneath him, making him fall. The impact with the ground jolted the man as he landed on his back, his breath stunted.

Bewildered, the sheriff didn't have the time to defend himself as Samara straddled his chest, catching one of his arms between his body and her thigh. The arm that managed to remain free was twisted to a straining angle. But that wasn't the most immediate threat to Rick's persona.

What did concern him was her other hand since it was holding a Glock .22 aimed right at his forehead.

A sudden sense of déjà vu came over him…

"Doesn't feel good, does it?" She hissed venomously. "Having someone you trust—a _friend_—put a gun to your head? More so, over a complete stranger who not moments ago shot at you and almost killed one of your people?"

It was hard for the sheriff to speak—or even breathe—since her thighs were squeezing his chest cavity rather tightly.

"It's upsetting, isn't it?"

"I shouldn't have done that. I know." Rick gritted his teeth as his twisted arm was starting to pain him. "Samara, I'm sorry."

"You chose a stranger over me." The blankness in her eyes matched the tone verbalized. "Do you realize how difficult it was for me to trust you? To believe that I had someone in this world that I could rely on?" It was true. The marshal had needed a long time to consider investing even a smidgen of trust in the sheriff. Because of his personality and actions until that moment, she had not expected him to turn on her in such a way.

—Had she underestimated him that much or had he lost notion of himself in those tense moments?

The Native gave him a once over, her expression set in disgust. "And you just…"

"I had to do it!" He snapped. "You were gonna kill him!"

"And you should have let me!"

"I couldn't! I didn't know how else to stop you!"

Both panted heavily, the exertion coupled with the summer Georgia sun not helping their situation.

"Would you have shot me?" Samara asked gruffly. Her eyes then narrowed as she considered her question. "…No, you wouldn't have. I could have killed that stupid kid and you wouldn't have moved one inch on that trigger."

"If you had shot him…" This was the truth he was speaking, without deviations or hesitations. "You would not have been welcome here anymore."

The woman gave him a long shrewd look and finally let go of his arm. When she got off him, Rick rose to a sitting position massaging his wrist where Samara had been gripping him like a cobra.

"You know…" Her cynical tone caught the sheriff's attention. "It's fucking hilarious how doing the right thing for the good of the group makes you the bad guy. Shane was right, you know. What the fuck are you going to do if that boy's people find this place? What are you going to do if they outnumber us and outgun us? Will you give them a flowery speech like you did back at the bar? Or how about you just invite them over, let them live here, hell, why not share your wife with them?"

Rick glared at her, the image her words conjured up tainting his mind.

The Native crouched low to be eye to eye with the man. "'Cause trust me on this, if those people find us, they will show no mercy. They will kill all you men and rape the women." When Rick averted his gaze, Samara latched onto his bicep with frightening urgency_. Listen to me_. "You know as well as I do that that's what's going to happen because we used to deal with people like Dave and Tony back in our police days. That's why we killed them. Because of what they represented."

"I know why I killed them!" Grimes shook the woman off and rose to his feet. He glowered down at her as he paced. "I'm very aware, and I don't regret it! Because it was either them or us!" _Them or my family_. "But going on a killin' spree was not the answer either. I gave those men a chance to leave and they chose to open fire. They reacted the same way we would have if one of our own got shot."

When Samara rose to her feet, Rick got close enough to her so his words could hit home. "Do you want to know why I didn't leave that boy behind? Because under normal circumstances that boy would have never even considered shootin' at us. Because that boy was scared out of his mind. And because I haven't given up! My humanity is still here!" His palm hit the center of his chest with the conviction to back it up.

"You still don't get it, do you?" The sheriff's words hit her like a sandbag, not because of their meaning but because of the man's utter naivety. "They don't matter. Anyone that's not a part of your people don't matter. They're cannon fodder. Keep your humanity for the ones you love not the ones that try to kill you. Trust me when I say this, if you had been in that kid's place, those men would have never showed you the same mercy."

"And that's why we have to be better than them! For ourselves, for our future…for my children." He exhaled heavily, the fight leaving him. He just wanted Samara to understand him and, for once, back up his decisions.

Samara watched him with saddened eyes and scoffed bleakly. "Gods, you're a hopeless cause…"

Rick shook his head. She chose not to listen to him in the end.

The sheriff didn't stop the woman when her feet carried her away from him. "From this moment on, don't come to me with you problems. Solve them yourself since you seem so good at listening to only your own counsel."

Blue eyes snapped to the woman's back. This was the beginning of something unwanted.

"And know this, if that kid's group finds us…don't expect me to fight for you, _sheriff_."

* * *

Two bottles of water were shoved forcefully into a backpack. Joining it were food rations enough for two days, a box of bullets that she stole from the RV and a map of Georgia.

Samara efficiently and swiftly strapped her three handguns to her body along with her machete. Before all this, the marshal had taken a shower and changed into new clothes: army green cargo pants, her cowboy boots and a dark blue T-shirt. Her aviators were in place and Samara had borrowed a beige cowboy hat from Maggie.

She had a long way ahead and she needed to be prepared.

Alistair followed her movements with wide eyes and whined lowly in his throat.

"Stay here." Samara ordered him as she left her tent with the backpack over her shoulder.

Her destination was the highway where the graveyard was. It was the only place she knew a working car was. While she had told the sheriff that she wanted his wife to find her one, it would probably take decades for the Kentucky woman to even consider lifting a finger.

Samara would cut through the forest to get to the highway. She already knew where she was going, so it only made it easier for her. She had left a note behind in her tent detailing where she was heading…or at least a part of it. From her estimate, the others would notice her disappearance hours from now and that is if nobody came looking for her. By that time she would be long gone from the highway.

Everything would have gone smoothly if only for the one obstacle that was approaching her from the side.

"What is it?"

Shane matched her pace and walked alongside her. "I saw you in the field with Rick. You two fight?"

"No, we fucked like rabbits."

The man snorted. "I'm pretty sure I'm not the only person that has ever told you that you have a shitty sense of humor."

An irritated sigh escaped the woman's lips. "What do you want?"

"Are you seriously gonna let that kid walk away from this?" Narrowed eyes zeroed on her. "If he somehow brings his people back here—"

"At this point, I really don't give a shit what happens. He's your problem now." The way she saw it the boy would probably die within hours or a day. With a bum leg, few supplies and no weapon, he had no chance out there. Problem solved.

"What happens to him affects you too."

"You think I don't know that?" Samara stopped in her tracks and faced Shane. "But I don't have any power here. I see that now. So, let Grimes do what he wants."

"Rick doesn't know what the hell he's doing."

"Look, Shane. I don't care." Her walking resumed. "The moment problems arise, either walkers or angry gun-toting people, I'm gone."

A flicker of doubt and hope sparked in his dark eyes. "You wanna leave?"

"I'm thinking about it." She mumbled tentatively. "It's not like I have anything to do here anymore. And I'm pretty sure half of you don't want me here. So why stay?"

"You remember my offer?"

It took a moment for the marshal to remember what he was speaking off. The question had the same gut churning effect it had back at the highway. "My answer is still no."

"Andrea wants to leave too."

"I know, but that still doesn't change anything."

The man cursed lowly. It was then that he noticed their destination and the backpack over her shoulder. "Where are you goin'?"

"Jam at the highway. I need a new car since Lori destroyed mine." The woman's name was spat out derisively, the memory and emotion behind it still all too fresh in her mind. She then pointed a finger at Shane, effectively cutting off any thought he would have about her trip. "And no, I don't want company."

Reaching the edge of the forest, Shane stopped and watched as the marshal entered deeper. "Rick ain't gonna like you goin' off by yourself."

"Don't care. I'll be back later."

She waved him off as she disappeared behind the thick forest vegetation.

* * *

It was quiet.

With each step away from the farm, the marshal felt the stress leave her system. The forest brought out the peaceful side of Samara, where the rage and despondency was gone and there was only herself and the nature around her.

_It's good for the soul_, Samara thought.

Small woodland critters scurried about, gathering food and going about their day without a care in the world. At first, Samara had wanted to shoot them to practice hunting, but her practical side got to her. It would be a waste of precious bullets.

Half an hour had passed since she left the farm and by her estimate she would reach the highway in about an hour, give or take. Faster if she jogged.

_Crack_.

Samara froze.

—She had definitely heard that.

Crouching low behind a thick tree, she took out her silent gun and peered over the edge, listening intently. Either it was an animal or a human, alive or undead. She really hoped it was an animal.

Straining her ears, the marshal heard nothing further that could alert her of an unknown presence. The only sound was the faint breeze ruffling the foliage and the distant rush of the creek.

Nothing seemed to be moving in the area. There was no anomaly distorting the environment.

She waited another few minutes before she finally relaxed, her tense muscles unclenching. She rose from her hidden position with a groan, her legs having fallen asleep.

_Crunch_.

Behind her on the left. Not even two meters away.

Eyes widened to dinner plates. The fight or flight instinct burst forth and adrenaline surged in.

Samara never even had the chance to raise her gun as a weapon appeared in her peripheral vision.

Her head slowly turned to the side.

Blink.

_What the…?_

"The hell are you doing here?"

* * *

He had been following her for the past ten minutes and hell if he knew why. It was hard not to notice her when she started cursing, disrupting the quiet of the forest. He had watched as the Native inspected her feet and grimaced at the filth splattered on the sole of her boot.

She most likely stepped in deer shit.

He had wanted to laugh at the hilarious sight of the woman scraping her boot against a fallen tree trunk, but he contained it to the best of his ability. Now was not the time to alert the woman of his presence.

Like a second shadow, he followed, intrigued with the woman's destination. She had a backpack with her and it looked baggy, so she had brought rations to last her a while. She wasn't out here hunting because her movements were direct, no stealth to them, and he noticed that when she spotted a few squirrels she had made no move against them.

Because his eyes were glued to the woman, he did not notice the old, rotten twig until it was too late and stepped on it. He immediately ducked and hid behind the vegetation and watched as the woman did the same. Patiently, he waited until the woman felt safe enough to come out of her hiding place and moved. He wanted answers and he was going to get them.

A short distance behind her, he deliberately stepped on a cluster of crusty leaves to alert her of his presence.

The woman acted as he predicted. She froze for a fraction of a second and the moment he saw the muscles in her gun arm tense, he knew she would swing around and shoot. But he never gave her the chance as he shoved his weapon in the side of her face.

The Native froze at the sight of the weapon and turned slowly to meet her assailant. There was a large part of him that enjoyed this, having the woman cornered like an animal.

Once her eyes settled on him, the tone changed from anxiety to annoyance and relief within a second.

"The hell are you doing here?"

Daryl lowered his crossbow and scoffed. Even with an arrow pointed at her she still had that haughty attitude.

"Could ask you the same thing." He jerked his head to her backpack. "Where you goin'?"

"The highway jam."

"What for?"

"A car."

Now he remembered. Lori had taken her car and, in a retarded fashion, managed to total it. Daryl's brain had gone vacant a few moments when he heard the news from Shane. It was the disbelief that did it.

The suspicious glare the Native suddenly conjured had him on defense.

"How long have you been following me?"

"Not long."

"Do I want to know why or is this some hillbilly fetish?"

He chose to be the better person and not rise up to her jab.

The woman checked the area and then gave him a once over. Daryl didn't know what she saw but it didn't seem to impress her as she walked away.

"Well, I'm off. You can go back to whatever it was that you were doing."

Pale blue eyes watched as the distance grew between them and the majority of him really wanted to go back to hunting. He had been at it for the past four hours and he was failing miserably. He had only caught two squirrels. It was like the local animal population had gone dry in the last twenty-four hours. The hunter reasoned that the gunshots must have scared them off, but he was also worried if by any chance the sight of walkers frightened them off. He wasn't an idiot. He knew the consequences of their actions and caution was high on his list right now.

But on the other hand, the better side of him was reluctant to leave her alone. If something happened to her at the highway the others will blame him for it. The thought of having another dead person on their hands was enough to move the hunter's legs in the direction the marshal had went.

Samara peeked over her shoulder when Daryl's shadow overwhelmed her. The glare sent his way resembled an irritated cat's. "Stop following me."

"Can't let you go on your own."

"I don't know if you've noticed this, but I don't need someone to watch over me."

Daryl scoffed as he surveyed the area. "Sell your bullshit to someone else, Indian. Right now, you shouldn't be off wonderin' the country side."

The Native guffawed derisively as she gave him a look. "Says the man in the woods."

"I was huntin'." It was completely different. He couldn't function properly if he was out hunting with someone else other than his brother. And Rick knew he could handle himself out here.

"Ain't found shit so I'm headin' back."

Dark brows rose in cynicism. "Your sense of direction is _impressive_."

"You're gonna drive us back, idiot." He scowled at her.

The Native actually bared her teeth at him. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had tried to sink her teeth into him.

Her lips twitched in displeasure and he could just see the thoughts traveling around in her mind. She wasn't happy and neither was he, but she would have to deal with it. He wasn't going anywhere.

The low curse didn't escape his ears.

Relief was greatly welcomed for the hunter when he realized that the marshal wasn't going to fight him over this, although he could see the anger sizzling underneath.

Daryl sighed heavily. He was not looking forward to this. Hopefully he wouldn't have to be more than an hour in her company.

* * *

"There's a walker on the right by the muddied black Jeep. Fifteen meters give or take."

"Two walkers on the left near that red van. Twenty meters."

Samara and Daryl were crouched low in the tall grass by the side of the road, watching the activity on the highway. They were far away from the location they had stopped to repair the RV, more in the back of the jam. This way it wouldn't be too difficult to drive a car out of the blockade.

The track to the highway had been silent and tense. Both held their attention to the environment and tried as hard as they could not to glance at each other.

Samara would like to blame the sun for her heated state, but she knew that it was the constant irritation of being in this man's presence that boiled her blood. Dixon just fucked up her plans royally. She had not expected for him to jump out of the bushes, even less for him to join her. If he insisted on coming with her to the highway, how the hell was she going to lose him after? Delaying her intentions was out of the question.

_Maybe I could push him out of the speeding car…_

The thought appealed greatly to her. The image brought out a fuzzy warm feeling in her stomach.

The pair had reached the highway without any altercations. Samara found it strange that they had encountered no walkers on the way. Even the highway was void of them save for a few.

"I thought those gunshots would have brought them out of the woodwork." Samara pushed her aviators over her forehead and frowned.

"Maybe they just ain't here yet."

Samara's heart skipped a beat. _That's a scary thought._

"I'll take the two on the right, you take the lone one." The hunter said as he loaded his crossbow and calculated the best route to his targets.

"Fine with me." Samara unsheathed her machete and placed her aviators back over her eyes.

With a nod, both jumped over the metal barrier and split up for their designated walker. Samara had to zigzag through the throng of cars to reach her undead.

It was a putrid one. The stench reached her nostrils from five meters and it was horrible. It took all her strength not to gag. The marshal couldn't even tell if it had been a male or a female. Its jaw was hanging by a thread and it didn't help that half of its throat had been chewed out, its black shriveled tongue dangling down its neck like an ugly pendant. One of its arms was gone and there was a limp to its step, since the foot was positioned in the opposite direction.

He was a slow walker, easy to take down.

And as predicted, it didn't take much for Samara to destroy it. It barely heard her as she advanced upon it and only in the last minute did it give signs of awareness, but by then it was too late—Samara's machete was deeply embedded into its cranium.

With a heave, the marshal retrieved her blade and wiped it on the thing's tattered clothes.

"Shit!"

The sudden loud expletive had her turn her head way more quickly than she would have liked. Massaging her throbbing neck muscles, she sprinted towards Dixon.

_Gods, if he was bit—_

"Dixon, are you…" The words died in her mouth once she stumbled upon the man.

Daryl was breathing heavily, his head lowered. The two walkers that he tagged were down, but there was another that neither of the two saw while perusing.

–It was a little girl.

She had been seven or eight by Samara's estimate. Ginger hair with freckles still visible on the pale post-mortem skin. Except for the open bite wound on her arm there was no other speck of blood on her. She reminded the marshal of one of those creepy antique dolls, forever never changing.

She was sprawled onto the street with Daryl's hunting knife deeply lodged into her skull.

"She came out of nowhere..."

That was all the hunter said as his eyes were fixed on the walker with a far away gaze. Samara knew instantly of who the girl reminded him off.

"Hey—" Coarse fingers tentatively brushed against his arm.

"I'm fine!" He snapped and slapped her hand away.

Samara stood out of his way as he callously retrieved his knife and strode past her. With one last look at the girl, the marshal followed the wounded man.

Daryl impatiently started checking each car for keys and fuel. The marshal observed his actions and was thankful that she had the shades on. She didn't think the hunter would appreciate the way she was looking at him right now.

"That little girl really messed you up, didn't she?"

The soft lifeless question paused the man in his search.

"It's just a damn walker." He answered without looking at her and continued where he left off.

"I wasn't talking about her."

Furious blue eyes scorched her once he understood. "Mind your own damn business, squaw!"

From that moment, Daryl chose to ignore the woman and focus on his task.

Samara shook her head and joined him in the search. It took about fifteen minutes until they found a working car with gas in it. Daryl went ahead and siphoned some fuel from the other cars as reserves for back at camp. Samara chucked out the objects found in the silver X3 BMW: clothes and food that had gotten bad from the exposure to the sun and warmth along with other objects now useless to survival like a laptop and documents. Whoever the owner was had been a businessman.

Loading the one fuel canister in the trunk, Daryl joined her in the passenger seat. Samara drove them out of the jam without much difficulty and they hit the empty road.

It took about five minutes to reach the dirt road leading to the farm. Samara slowed to a stop and watched as Dixon got out of the car and prepared to open the wooden gate. Gripping the steering wheel, the marshal's eyes traveled between the hunter and the road. She could just take off. Dixon would never be able to catch up to her even if he reached the farm and riled the others up to chase her down.

But then she'll just produce panic among the others and she won't hear the end of it when she eventually got back.

"Dixon."

Hearing his name, the man looked over, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Look, I'm not coming with you. You can walk back from here."

Any of the others would have stood there in confusion and asked what she was talking about, but Dixon just stared at her for a moment longer. "Where ya goin'?"

"There's a town thirty kilometers north-east from here. I'm going to scout it and then—"

"No."

The calm abrupt manner in which he responded threw her off. She quickly regained her bearing and glared at him venomously.

"Excuse me?" Her voice came out more shrilly than she had wanted.

"I said no. We're goin' back." His wide strides took him back to the car…to the driver's side…

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, you—"

While Samara had been suspicious of him approaching her, she didn't expect him to open the side door and jerk her out of the car. His grip on her arm was firm, but painless, and he had the decency to stop her from stumbling over her feet.

"Somebody has to. You have a real hearin' problem every time somethin' doesn't go your way." The hunter all but dragged her to the other side of the car, towards the passenger side.

"Get your hands off me, you crazy redneck!" Indignant fingers dug into the man's arm, hoping that her nails would do some damaged. Samara tried everything from digging her heels into the ground to punching the man's back, and she didn't hold back on force. Daryl just grunted and shrugged it off every time spurring the woman's ire.

"This ain't the time to go joyridin'." They reached the passenger side and Daryl pushed her inside the car without an ounce of civility. "We're goin' back even if I have to tie you to this car and drag you all the way back."

"Have you lost your goddamn mind?!" The marshal couldn't believe the way he was manhandling her. She couldn't even remember the last time someone attempted such a thing.

"No. I'm thinkin' clearly right now."

The kick aimed towards the hunter's groin had been anticipated by said man and he caught her foot in an iron grip. Samara scowled as one of her leg's was now impaired and Dixon had pulled her to the edge of her seat and was threatening to drag her out all the way.

Russet cheeks flushed in embarrassment as Samara had to grip the dashboard and seat to keep herself from falling.

_Gods, what a sight we are…_

"Dammit, listen to me!"

"No, you listen, woman." He pointed a finger in her face. "I ain't goin' back empty-handed. I don't need Grimes to chew my ass out because I let you go."

"Oh gods, just tell him you never saw me." She tried to pry her leg out of the man's grip but it only made Dixon tighten his hold on her. "Shane is the only one beside you that knows so the others will blame him. You have nothing to worry."

Forgoing an answer, Daryl shoved her leg back inside and closed the door. Without wasting a second, Samara jumped in the driver's seat and instead of her fingers coming in contact with the key, it only touched air. The sudden jangle of metal snapped her eyes to the windshield—Daryl was holding the car keys.

"Son of a bitch…."

_He must have swiped them when he got me out of the car!_

The sudden mechanical click and beep was the sound of the car locking itself, courtesy of an infuriating trailer-dweller. Punching the steering wheel, she fumed in her seat as she watched Daryl resume his task on opening the gate.

It was in this moment that desperation settled in. She couldn't go back to the farm. Samara would rather jump out of the car going on 100km per hour than set one foot on Hershel's land.

Returning to the passenger side, Samara began banging against the window.

"Hey! Dixon!" The marshal growled when he turned her back to her. "Asshole! Open the fucking doors and let me out! I swear, the moment you get in this car I am going to go walker on your ass, do you hear me!"

Her banging lowered to a light tapping until it fully stopped as she realized that Dixon wasn't going to give her the time of day anytime soon. The gate was open wide at this point.

Desperation rose to an alarming peak.

"Daryl, please!"

—The plea was unexpected to both parties.

Samara couldn't believe that she let that slip and Daryl couldn't believe that she had the ability to use the word 'please' in a sentence.

Turning around, the hunter watched her steadily, his blues weighting the authenticity of the woman's expression and words.

"Just hear me out. _Please_."

It was with great reluctance and doubt that the man approached the car. He was wary of her devious ways and knew she was capable of great trickery. But that plea…It was like a hazard zone—you knew it was dangerous to step in but you just had to get closer and see it anyways.

"You try an' kick me again—"

"I won't." Samara sighed in relief as Dixon chose to lend his ear and open the side door.

It took the marshal a few minutes to choose her words and not appear _too_ distressed.

"Dixon, I can't go back. I don't _want_ to go back. I just…I need to be on my own for a little while." She breathed out heavily for this next part. "I need to regain my bearings. I can't look at Grimes without wanting to beat him bloody. I almost gave into the temptation to strangle his wife this morning and I kicked Alistair last night. I didn't mean to, I just wasn't thinking."

Pulling her gun on the sheriff had not been a thought-out move but something spawned out of impulse. Samara hated being rash, because every single time she made stupid decisions. And yesterday when she kicked Alistair…if she hadn't been so angry her mind wouldn't have blanked out and the consequences of Alistair's actions wouldn't have happened. Granted, she would have been angry, but not enough to cause bodily harm.

And jumping the sheriff like that was like the situation with Dixon back at the abandoned house. Idiotic.

"I can't be around the others right now. I'm just _so_ angry and I'm afraid of what I might do next."

The anger was real and it was still flowing underneath the skin. Currently, it was dormant like a frozen waterfall but once disturbed the barrier will crack and the flow will be endless. And Samara was deathly afraid of that. She had a temper, she knew that. She hadn't always been like this. Before, she had been a quite a level-headed person with rare bursts of anger, but the past few months had intensified the uglier aspects of her persona.

And considering the lack of reservations she had these days, the number of possibilities she could do in a blade rage were worrying.

Gods, she had been hacking away at grass without even a smidgen of awareness. If that didn't bring out red flags she didn't know what else.

"I'm not going to run off. I'm going to come back, I promise." She couldn't believe that she had to retort to begging. It was soul cringing. "Please, just let me go."

Samara watched the battle wave in front of the man's eyes and the sight of his brow furrowing further told of heavy thoughts weighting his mind. Even the fact that Daryl was pondering her request was a good sign in Samara's opinion. But then again Dixon was unpredictable and Samara could already anticipate the negative—

"Alright."

Pause.

Her brows shot up in surprise. _I did not expect that._

"I—" Samara stuttered for a moment before regaining her posture. She cleared her throat and nodded gratefully to the hunter. "Thank you."

"I'm goin' with you."

Whatever good thoughts she had about Dixon were just shot down with those words and the familiar glare settled back over her expression.

"What part of being on my own didn't you get?"

The ominous way Daryl approached Samara had her almost backing away in her seat. Straightening her back, Samara stood her ground and clenched her fists in case she needed to swing them. Daryl stopped short of a few centimeters from her upper body and slightly hunched himself over her, one of his hands placed against the headrest of her seat. "Either I go with you or we head back right now. I don't care if you don't like it, that's how's it gonna be."

"Why?" She really didn't understand his thought process. They didn't like each other, in fact Samara wanted to have as little as possible with him. Their relationship was strained and she still hadn't forgiven him for his words on that stormy day. So why was he putting himself out there for her?

"If it were me, I wouldn't give a shit what you'd do, but the others care." He backed away from her and headed back to the gate to close it.

"Don't need any more funerals…" Daryl mumbled to himself as he closed the gate. Samara was pretty sure that his words weren't meant for her ears.

Samara leaned back against her seat and sighed. She should have just driven away when she had the chance. Here she thought that she would get a few hours, maybe even a day, to herself, and now she had a crossbow-toting redneck trail after her like a second shadow.

"You don't even have any rations with you and I only have enough for one person." The marshal told him once he was back in the car.

"I'll find my own damn food." With a swift turn of his wrist, he started the engine and worked the steering wheel.

The BMW sprang to life and glided down the road. The marshal watched in the side mirror the Greene's mailbox getting smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared.

"Does Shane know where you're goin'?" He asked after a short lapse in speech.

"He knows I was going to the highway. He doesn't know about the second part. I did leave a note in my tent." She hoped that someone would have the brains to check her tent once they realized she was gone.

"I'm guessin' you didn't leave a destination."

_Sharp man._

"You guess correctly."

"Where are we headed anyway?"

Samara gave him a side glance before focusing her attention back on the road.

"Hampton."

* * *

**Foot Note**_:_ I need some feedback here, guys. Did anyone consider Samara's outburst with the car situation and her feelings of hurt and physical altercation with Rick exaggerated? Was she overdramatic, far-fetched as a character or did she react accordingly?

To me it seemed fine, but then again having a different point of view would be enlightening.


	15. SOS

_**Note:**_ Hmmm…I wonder how many of you are angry right now…for the massive delay…

*evades flying bottle*

Okay…I deserve that.

I bet you guys thought I abandoned it, didn't ya? But as I've said before, I'm gonna finish this damn fic whenever I want to or not.

I really hope you faithful readers aren't going to abandon this fic just because I can't update it weekly or monthly. I really wish that I could, but I can't. It would be a real crying shame to lose the few people that actually give a damn about this fic .

You know, now I understand why it takes so long for some fanfic writers to update. I used to get angry that I had to wait months (even years) for a chapter, but now…Shit son, I understand the struggle.

**PS:** Have you guys seen the cover for my story? That's Samara in case you haven't connected the dots and yes, my Photoshop skills are terrible, I am very much aware.

* * *

Their steps were silent as they walked down the main street of Hampton, Georgia.

The BMW had been left outside the town's perimeter. Samara refused to drive in the center of town in case of living conniving inhabitants or herds of walkers blocking their path.

The marshal had chosen a one straight lane that led directly to the center of town. On each side were branches of roads directing to cul-de-sacs and other parts of the town, but she wasn't interested in them. Memories of Wiltshire came to mind and she would rather avoid residential locations. Before arriving in the first intersection, they had passed rows of small white houses having belonged to the more downtrodden of Hampton's residence. The majority of them had broken or boarded windows and doors. One was without a door and a trail of blood leading inside.

—The pair had wisely decided not to look inside them.

Three walkers was the total they had taken down until reaching the intersection, making it mild for a town.

Samara and Daryl stood in the middle of the street, their eyes moving from one building to another. There was a pharmacy on their left side while a gas station stood on the right.

"Where you wanna go first?"

Samara scratched the back of her head. "To tell you the truth, I didn't come here with a specific purpose in mind."

From her peripheral vision, the marshal could see Dixon give her a blank look.

"I was only going to roam the town. Clear my head a bit."

The hunter mumbled to himself as he ran a hand over his temple. "Christ, what the hell am I doing here?"

"Hell if I know…" Samara said loud enough so Dixon could hear it.

Sighing, the hunter racked his fingers through his short hair and checked the position of the sun. "We have eight hours until dark. What do you wanna do?"

"I need cigarettes." She only now remembered that she was in dire need of nicotine.

"Fine."

* * *

Scouring the gas station had been very short. The inside had been stripped clean of valuables, not even a cigarette bud left behind. But they did find a map of Hampton which made their excursion much easier. The pharmacy hadn't been any different. It had been empty of all items.

They moved forward up the lane. As further into the town they got the emptier it proved. There were two roads parallel leading into the center, one exiting the town, the other heading towards the western side. There were no cars or survivors or signs of walkers.

"This is a ghost town."

The stillness of the main road was haunting. Worse was the fact that there was nothing disturbed.

They silently walked by the Administration &amp; Community Building. Unlike the other buildings, there was a short message painted over the double doors.

_**Dead alive inside. Don't open the doors.**_

If the warning wasn't enough, the disgusting odor coming from inside was. The pair speeded up, eager to be as far away from the vomit inducing stench as they could be.

Samara bended over herself as they reached a fresh, neutral smelling distance and dry heaved. The smell coming from inside the building was nothing she could actually compare it too. Not even the barn, where dozen of walkers had lived for weeks, had been able to produce such a foul smelling odor. She spat a healthy amount of saliva as she grimaced in disgust.

"Army's been here."

The hunter's sudden statement caused the marshal to give him a perplexed look.

"How do you—?"

Her olive greens followed his line of sight and her eyes widened at the view.

"Oh…"

A distance away, on the parallel road to their left, was a church…or at least the remains of a church. The white and maroon building had been pulverized by a fighter aircraft. The only way the two could tell that the debris had been a church was the untouched sign in the front that ironically said 'The End Has Come Upon Us. Jesus Will Save Us.'

—The one problem was, Jesus forgot to save.

Samara stepped forward cautiously and analyzed the charred remains within the crash site. Scrap of metal where littered everywhere and the ground was cracked open in various places with root like fissures spreading outwards.

The marshal couldn't really identify what type of fighter jet it was. It wasn't her field firstly, and secondly, the plane was too destroyed to tell.

"This one of them jet planes?" Daryl said as he followed the woman.

"Something like that." Samara mumbled as she looked on baffled. Her russet fingers glided over the cooled metal of the bended wing. "How the hell did it end up here?"

They were far away from any military base and as far as Samara knew, jets like that were only seen on aircraft carrier ships. Maybe some pilot got lost or fled, who knew. Either way, it didn't matter. The plane was a hunk of scrap now and the pilot long gone.

"Walker."

Samara's revere was broken by the hunter's abruptness. Spinning around, she had her machete out and eyes narrowed to attention. The hunter didn't seem panicked as he casually stepped over rubble and looked down at something vaguely human hunched over itself on the ground. Rolling her eyes, Samara lowered her blade and walked over to the barely moving walker. It was once a man but now it was more of a skeleton with its skin and meat hanging off the bones. The walker vaguely reminded her of those wrinkly dogs with the Asian name.

Samara crouched before it, keeping a distance just in case.

Its milky eyes moved slowly, from Daryl to Samara and back, but it did not move. It appeared as if it was too tired, too weary to even move its eyes, let alone move a limb. Almost like it gave up.

"Do you ever wonder about them?"

"What's there to think about?" Daryl shrugged. "They're walkers. The only thing you have to do is destroy the brain."

"I mean, do you ever wonder how long they last?"

"They ain't batteries, dumbass."

Samara scowled as she tilted her head upwards. "How do you know that? Everything has an expiration date. Maybe they have one too."

"You willin' to stick around and find out? Be my guest." Daryl moved away from the rubble, his interest in the unmoving walker already forgotten.

His distant words reached her ears and the faint forlorn tone present caught her by surprise. "They ain't ever gonna stop. Not as long as we still live."

Thinking about the virus inside all of them, Samara nodded to herself. _He's got a point there._

* * *

Olive eyes skimmed over the complete collected works of Oscar Wilde. The pair had found a bookstore not far from the ruined church and Samara had insisted on entering the establishment while Daryl had perceived it as a waste of time.

Samara wasn't exactly a fan of Wilde, but at the moment she couldn't be picky. Putting aside the book, the marshal searched for a medical text or anything related to childbirth. In brief moments of the day, she had wondered who will deliver Lori's baby. Most likely Hershel, but considering that he was a vet and he most likely had never delivered a child, he might need some help.

She slowly searched through the small bookstore, passing between the two rows, letting her eyes read each books' spine. Dixon was at the front by the windows, his eyes on the street checking for any movements.

Samara sighed. As she looked over the rows of novels, a strange sense of melancholy washed over her. This here was history. Everything written on these small pages was what defined them as human beings. Their own corner in time.

"In a few decades, all of this is going to be gone." She said, voice distant. "Hell, we might be a distant memory by then. The wonders of the world, the art, the literature, the history…All that work, the sweat and blood poured into them, forgotten in just a few moments. Left as testimonies that we were once here." Her eyes traveled to the thick blanket of dust coating every object in the store. "With time, even they will be reduced to dust and all trace of humanity ever having set foot on this earth will be long—"

"Will you shut up?"

And like that her thoughtful mood soured and Samara glared at the Georgia man, to which he returned the gesture with the same zeal.

"Nobody said you had to listen!"

"Ain't like I have a choice with you talkin' out loud. Talk in your head." He pointed towards his own temple. "You're yammerin' is startin' to get on my nerves."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The marshal spat belittlingly. "I should have known it would be too difficult for you to follow such a _heavy_ topic with your tiny thought process and all that."

With a condescending snort, Daryl left the tiny bookstore. Samara shook her head at the man's bastard streak. Really, she was here contemplating their future extinction and he was being a dick about it.

Her gaze traveled back to the books and she sighed in resignation. The thought of humanity disappearing one day weighted heavily on her mind. Before meeting the Atlanta group she had pondered these notions with an air of hopelessness and acceptance. Samara didn't mind if she died, at least then she would be—_maybe_—reunited with her loved ones, but the thought of humanity just going extinct from a bloody virus was jarring. They had lived on this earth for far too long to die out in the span of a few months.

But her biggest regret had to be not living her life up to her promises. The things she had wanted to do: read more books, travel, make more time for her husband and their life, visit her father's grave more often, and so many more. Now she could do neither of those things. Her only objective left was staying alive in this Hell and wait until something killed her because she was too chickenshit to do it herself.

Shaking herself from her depressive thoughts, she stepped outside, not wanting to delve anymore deeper into this train of thought.

* * *

Daryl was enjoying one of the last cigarettes he had stashed on his person. After spending four hours with the Indian in this grueling heat, generally keeping his anger in check and after the incident not an hour ago, he was entitled to one. From the corner of his eye he could see the woman also enjoying a cigarette which he provided her with.

They had walked around the town passing stores and buildings and, finally, they felt daring enough to enter a cul-de-sac. Daryl had not liked it, not one bit. The eerie emptiness of the town was raising red flags in his mind. There was no possible way the town was bare of walkers. They were, unfortunately, _everywhere_.

But as the hours passed, it became more apparent that at one point the undead did coexist in this ghost town, but something must have made them move in droves. He hoped to everything that was holy that it wasn't the gunshots from the farm, because then they would be in deep shit.

One house in particular had caught his attention—well not his attention, more like his disgust and a feeling of dread at the pit of his stomach. He had been enjoying a still edible jar of strawberry jam and crackers that he had been fortunate enough to find when he heard abrupt movements upstairs where the marshal was investigating. Without missing a second, his crossbow was at the ready, the food long forgotten, and his feet took him up the stairs with unexpected swiftness. He found the marshal at an open bedroom threshold, her gun aimed at something inside. Her face was scrunched up in hell breathing rage and thinly veiled horror.

Daryl closed his eyes in remembrance. He wished to God he had never stepped foot in that house because what he saw in that room would haunt him for the next few days. Inside the bedroom was a lone walker, but that was not the odd thing about it. The fact that it was female and tightly strapped to the bed without a stitch of clothing was what raised his hackles. Each limb was tied with metal wire to the four bedposts spreading her limbs out like an eagle. There was aged blackish blood crusted to her wrists and ankles, most likely from struggling to free herself while she had still been alive.

–It didn't take a genius to know what fate befell the poor woman.

Daryl had swallowed down his disgust and gingerly entered the room. His morbid curiosity had pushed him inside without him even noticing as he inspected the undead woman. The walker was fatigued to the extreme; Daryl didn't even know how it was still…living, in a manner of speaking. The one woman must have been starved because he could see all her bones protruding underneath the skin. There were no muscles or fat left on her bones, and the view reminded him of those pictures photographers took of starving children in Africa.

In that moment of grotesqueness, Daryl failed to realize one important aspect—the woman had no bite mark on her.

"Sometimes…" Samara started as she watched the walker with a disgusted expression. "I wonder why the hell do we even try…"

Those were the last words the marshal spoke in over an hour. She had withdrawn from any bit of social interaction with him and focused on her tasks instead. Daryl understood. The walker had a much deeper impact on her seeing as they were both of the same gender and it showed the marshal what could potentially happen to her in this new world.

The Native was the first to leave the house, the image of the undead woman making her unable to stand there for even a second more, and leaving Daryl to put the walker out of its misery.

Ever since leaving the house, something had been nagging at Daryl's mind. As if there something had been in that room that should have been glaringly obvious to him and he felt it at the back of his mind, just out of his reach. It annoyed the hunter deeply because he did not like this teasing feeling and that was what his mind was doing to him right now—playing hide and seek.

His gaze shifted to the woman. She sat on the sidewalk a distance away from him, smoking her cigarette with abandon. Her gaze was far away as something seemed to sit heavily on her mind. Daryl didn't disturb her from her thoughts. He had nothing to say really. He wasn't the comforting type and he was sure the woman would not appreciate it one bit.

He sometimes wondered about her, in his more peaceful moods. More out of curiosity than anything else. Back in the old days, he had never met anyone like her. Stubborn people he had met, but the women from his hometown were more on the loose side and those that weren't, the good ones, left town as soon as they finished high school. Not that the Native was a good person, mind you. She was complicated, to keep it simple, and he would have approached her cautiously if she had lived in his town. Of course, if he had tried, Merle would have had a field day. A hick with an Indian was right in the category he found amusing. Daryl wondered how long she would have stuck around with Merle as his brother—

Blink.

Why the hell was he even thinking about _her_ in _that_ way?

He shifted uncomfortably, throwing a paranoid peek her way. His train of thought had led him down a troubling path _again_. To his annoyance, thoughts of this kind invaded his mind every now and then. Daryl attributed it to boredom so as to not give it more meaning. There were not that many women around these days and only two or three of them that peeked his interest.

The moment this thought sprang forth was down by the creek when he had to catch the Indian from falling on the slippery rocks. Just the faint touch of her body against his had his nerves shoot up like fireworks. He had been so deprived of physical contact of the female kind that his body turned traitor.

There was one question on the edge of his mind. One that nagged at him every now and then whenever he caught sight of her.

—Would he sleep with her?

Daryl had thought about it several times. Samara wasn't ugly. Far from it. But her character left much to be desired, and Daryl put much more weight on personality than looks. Experience had taught him that.

Besides, knowing the marshal, there would be consequences to such an intimate rendezvous. She would either blackmail him or something else along those lines. Besides, who says she would let him even touch her? With her prejudices.

Shaking his head of such lurid thoughts, Daryl focused on the now. Checking his watch, he noticed that it was around three in the afternoon.

"You still wanna stick around or can we go back?"

* * *

Her anger towards Rick and his bullshit decisions had faded somewhat in place of not finding _one_ pack of cigarettes and the bastards that tied up that poor creature and used her for their sick entertainment.

_Humans are such sick creatures when left out of their leashes_.

She had done some nasty things over these past few months including robbing and killing, but she never stooped so low as to degrade another human being in such a fashion. Some might not think that there's a difference between her and them, but there was, dammit! Anybody can kill, but only a few are capable of rape.

Samara blew out a circle of smoke and watched it quiver and dissipate in the afternoon sun. It was hot as hell today and sweat was running down her forehead like Niagara Falls, but…This was better than being back at camp where you could feel the tension from a mile away.

The more distance she put between herself and the farm the more lightly she felt, as if her problems disappeared one piece at a time. Samara knew that this was a fantasy. That the moment she stepped foot on camp, everything will revert to its default mode and, again, she will be put under strain. She was under no illusion that this little trip will cure anything. To tell the truth, Samara hadn't been herself in quite a while. She has been more reckless and…_emotional_ than her former calculated self and she attributed it to being around a group of people who were trying to imitate civilization. Sure, this getaway will calm her down, clear her mind, but the problems will still be there—

"You still wanna stick around or can we go back?"

—But for now, she could prolong the inevitable.

Sighing, Samara adjusted her cowboy hat and rose to a stand. "After we find smokes, then we can go back. Unless, you want to go. I have no problem with that."

Daryl snorted and threw his cigarette filter. On his feet, he stretched his arms and took hold of his crossbow, ready for wherever the Native would take them.

* * *

Two hours.

They have been searching for two _goddamn_ hours and still no cigarettes! How was this possible? Did everyone in this town load up on cigarettes before leaving? Where they that desperate? Couldn't have they anticipated dying and leaving just _one_ untouched pack for a world-weary survivor looking for a nicotine fix?

_Assholes_.

Samara grimaces as she searched through a kitchen cabinet. Pans and other utensils, but no food or smokes. There was rat turd on the plates, though.

"Tsk."

She and Dixon had moved from one cul-de-sac to another in search for the holy cancer sticks, but to no avail. It was like all the cigarettes had disappeared from this town.

_These people have a serious smoking problem…_

They were now in an unfinished cul-de-sac, some of the houses' skeleton still visible. There were only a few houses that were livable, the others having collapsed on their own from negligence or Mother Nature. Samara had treaded carefully when she had entered the current residence. The floorboards were eaten by mold and damp from the lack of a rooftop allowing rain and other weather phenomenon to reign upon. She had to disperse her weight at all times since the floorboards squeaked warningly.

Dixon was in the next house. He had wanted to cover more ground this way. The marshal wondered how long Dixon would keep going along with her requests. He had been rather patient until now and she still couldn't understand why he was being so…indulgent.

Samara clenched her fists in frustration at yet another empty cupboard. In anger, she slammed the door shut and rubbed her temple in frustration. The marshal was pretty sure that they won't be finding any cigarettes today.

Her negative train of thought would have continued and probably worsened if it weren't for the fact that the floorboards suddenly groaned.

Like the strike of a whip her entire body coiled up, muscles clenching to painful degrees and adrenaline surging through her system. That groan wasn't from the house's shoddy workmanship, but from a foot stepping on weakened wood. And it wasn't Dixon since he wasn't petty enough to sneak up on her.

Faster than she thought possible, Samara turned, silenced gun ready, and came face to face with a man in kakis, pointing a pistol at her.

Silence.

Samara could hear her heart pounding as she adjusted to this new development. The marshal observed this new addition to her spectrum with a critical eye. The patch on the man's chest read J. Donovan, US Marines, and there was also the presence of the Marine Corps emblem on the breast pocket.

_Ooh-rah_, Samara thought sarcastically.

The Marine was somewhere in his early twenties with short brown hair and striking green eyes. His uniform was dirty and had small rips here and there. The man wasn't carrying a backpack and he looked neither starved nor unkempt, so he must have come from somewhere with food and shelter. What worried the marshal was whether he was alone or had buddies crawling around. Was Dixon also being held at gunpoint or was this man unaware of the presence of her companion?

The Marine was taller than her by a head and his posture while rigid, gave a hesitant aura. Just by looking in his eyes, Samara knew that half of him was uncertain what to do and she took full advantage of that.

"So, Marine. Are you going to just stand there pointing a gun at me or are you going to introduce yourself?"

Startled by her calm words, the man tensed and straightened his gun. His eyes sharpened as his tongue peaked out and licked the sweat that ran down the corner of his mouth.

"Shut up. Put your weapons and backpack down and slide them over to me."

Samara almost smirked. _Rookie._

"I know the Marine Corps trained you better than that—" Her eyes slid to his chest. "Donovan."

"You—" The man was obviously ruffled by the lack of fear in the woman. "I said put your weapons down!"

_Dumbass_. Raising his voice like that told the marshal that he didn't know of Daryl's presence. He thought she was alone. Samara just hoped that the hick had good enough hearing so they can interrogate this fucker and find his hideout. Maybe they even had cigarettes.

"And if I don't want to? I bet I can shoot you before you can even think about shooting me, you little peckerwood."

This time Samara's arctic, no-bullshit tone had the Marine shuffle in his place.

"You shoot me, my teammates are gonna fuck you up." The southern twang in his voice quivered for a second before strengthening.

"No, they won't. You're alone here, otherwise they would have already shown themselves. Ambush is the key. Don't give the other time to prepare himself for an attack."

The Marine paused and looked at the woman anew. It took him several moments for him to realize what her stance coupled with her calm demeanor and words meant.

"You're a soldier."

"Was a long time ago."

"Shit." He muttered under his breath. "That still doesn't change shit."

Olive eyes narrowed on the man. Something as wrong here. Why _was_ he alone?

"What happened to you?" Samara asked as she took a tiny step forward making the Marine tense further. "At first I thought you were out on recon, but now I think you truly are on your own. No supplies, just a gun and I'm wondering now if it is even loaded."

Pupils dilated and fingers tightened on the handle of the gun. "You wanna find out, lady?"

As much as he wanted to sound assertive, he just came out as scared. He was on his own then.

_Interesting_.

"What happened? Did you split from the group or just got kicked out?"

"Fuck you." He spat.

_Kicked out._

"Must be tough. On your own, all alone in this desolate world." Samara took another step closer. "Nobody to back you up like before."

"Shut up!" His face was now scrunched up in fury. "What the hell do you know?"

_That's it, get angry. Make a mistake._

"What did you do? Did you kill someone?" Another step. "Did you steal rations, guns? You must have killed someone, right?"

And finally, he snapped.

"I didn't do shit! Davis was the one that did it! It was all his damn fault!"

With anger comes lack of judgment and once his gun lowered, Samara shot him in the shoulder.

As the force of the gun rocked the man backwards, Samara sprang forward and yanked the gun from his hand. Since the Marine was younger it meant his endurance was higher and such, caught her wrist before she could get away. With surprising strength, he twisted her hand until she dropped his gun and then threw Samara against the wall of the kitchen. The impact did little to jar her, but the stinging pain in her wrist just made her angry. Rising her silenced weapon she fired again, only to have the Marine knock her hand away. The next few minutes were a struggle as both fought for the gun, grappling and hitting whatever part they could, neither giving out an inch. Donovan's fist connected with Samara's cheek making her see stars for a few seconds. He might be young, but the bastard had big hands.

With the gun in his possession, he was more than ready to aim it at her and shoot the bitch. Samara recovered from her bout of dizziness and jumped the Marine, aiming her thumb right in the shoulder wound. Screaming in pain as Samara lodged her entire thumb in the bloody hole, the Marine started landing punches wherever he could on the Native, doing anything to get rid of her. With her free hand, Samara defended herself from the onslaught, but the impact hurt like a bitch.

_That's gonna leave some bruises._

Once she had a clear shot, the marshal threw two consecutive punches right into his kidneys. Doubling over, the man groaned in pain, holding his stomach. This gave Samara enough time to scramble after a gun. Seeing her go after the weapon, the Marine panicked and limped after her. Hitting the floor, Samara took hold of the Marine's gun and aimed right at the incoming, very angry soldier.

Two shots.

One in the chest and the other in the head.

The man's eyes rolled in his head as the bullet lodged in his brain. Samara didn't have time to move as the dead body landed right on top of her. As the man's weight crushed her to the floor, Samara heard a loud groaning noise from underneath her. Eyes widened as the sound of wood splintering sealed her fate.

_Oh._

_Shit._

Crack.

Samara felt the wood give out and then nothing. She fell through air.

It was a strange sensation. Almost like floating.

It only took a couple of seconds for Samara to hit the ground, and for the second time today she was squished by a dead body mass of 80kg.

"Ugh." Samara groaned as she choked on bile. She could feel the entire content of her stomach speed its way up her throat and with a lurch to the side, she vomited her morning breakfast.

Spitting the remaining chunks and saliva, she breathed in and out deeply to compose herself. Once she had a clear enough mind, she willed her numb arms to move and dislodge the Marine from her person. It took some effort, but she managed it.

Her eyes fluttered around. Where was she?

Around her were boxes and construction materials. A basement.

Groaning in pain, Samara made a superficial check on herself. One: she had the worst headache ever. Two: her vision was doubled and wavering with specks of color flickering. Three: her whole body hurt, her back, belly and ribs especially. If she made a guess, some of her ribs were probably fractured; she was experiencing a concussion and she will have a full color spectrum of bruises by tomorrow.

With a heave, the marshal attempted to lift her upper body up only to have the worst searing pain assault her. Collapsing back, she checked her abdomen, the cause of her pain.

"Oh…Fuck…"

—There was a piece of wood sticking out of the left side of her abdomen.

Samara whined lowly. How the fuck had she missed _that_?!

She attempted to move again only to feel the piece of wood move around inside her and producing more pain.

"Shit!" The marshal cursed as she grinded her teeth harshly.

She wasn't going anywhere, not by herself.

"Dixon." Her voice was too hoarse and too low for anyone to have heard that, but she hoped to the gods that the hunter heard the crash.

And for once her hopes came true because not a second later she heard heavy footsteps above her and the shape of a man appeared in her vision.

She had never been so glad to see the redneck until now. He was a bloody angel.

"What the fuck happened?!"

* * *

Daryl was scavenging through a wardrobe when he heard the gunshots. Without thinking he sped outside the house and into the next one where the marshal was. His panic increased when he heard the loud crash.

_Goddammit, I leave that woman alone for five minutes and she brings the whole house down!_

Entering the kitchen, Daryl is stunned to find a giant hole in the center of the floor.

_What the_—?

He just knew who was at the bottom of that hole. And lo and behold there she was, spread eagle on the basement floor covered in dust and…blood…

"What the fuck happened?!" Daryl spoke harshly as his eyes landed on another human form. "Who the hell is that?!"

"It—It hurts." Samara choked on saliva as she pointed towards her abdomen.

There was a protrusion out of her belly that almost gave the impression of bone, but it was wood since she was surrounded by pieces of them.

"Oh, shit…Don't move."

"Hardy, fucking har." The marshal spat as she let her head fall back.

Daryl ignored her and looked in the basement for stairs. He needed to find the door leading downstairs and get her the hell out of there. She could explain the dead soldier later.

He spotted them by the far right side of the room.

The hunter wasted no time and ran towards the side where the door should be located. It was outside the kitchen, but locked. Impatience flooding his body, Daryl crashed his boot against the door. It creaked fiercely and bended a little, but did not give in. Two more tries and the whole door was taken out of its hinges. The man did not even care about the loud sound it made and sped down the stairs two at a time.

Approaching the marshal, he kneeled next to her. She was a mess. Her cheek was swollen and bleeding and her breathing was ragged. His pale eyes moved towards her abdomen.

Damn. He wasn't a doctor, but even he could tell that this wasn't good. He needed to get her back to camp immediately.

"That bad, huh?" She whispered breathlessly.

"Well it ain't good." His gaze fleeted towards the soldier next to her. "He dead?"

"Very."

Samara started coughing, a sliver of blood crawling out from between her lips and down her jaw.

Daryl's frown deepened. The fall wasn't that big, so he doubted she had broken bones. Gingerly, he pushed her body to the side so he could see the extent of her injury. Lines of sticky blood was between her body and the floor. The lower half of her top was darkened with red substance and there was a tiny pool underneath her.

"Can you move at all?"

The marshal nodded slightly. "I can move my arms and legs, but you're going to have to lift me up."

Daryl nodded, but his attention was back at the wood. If they had to run, she couldn't do it with a piece lodged inside her. "I'm gonna have to take out this piece. Can't have you runnin' around like this."

"Fuck." She grimaced as she could already envision the pain. "Alright. Do it."

Daryl removed his crossbow from his shoulder and straddled her thighs. When that piece of wood comes out she was going to struggle and he'd rather not worsen the wound. Daryl unsheathed his hunting knife and placed the handle in between her teeth. Or at least tried.

"No fucking way. I'm not putting that thing in my mouth. It's dirty."

"Look, you either bite on this or on your own teeth. And if you break some of yours, I'm gonna laugh in your face."

Samara glared at him through the pain and swallowing down her pride, she slowly parted her lips. Without grace, Daryl shoved the leather handle in-between her teeth, earning some unintelligible curses from the Native.

"I'm gonna do it on three, alright?"

The marshal nodded determinately.

With a firm grip on her hip, Daryl took told of the piece of wood from the entrance wound.

"One." He licked the corners of his mouth, moistening the dry skin.

"Two—" Without any warning Daryl pulled the foreign object out of her body. It was sort of sickening, hearing the wood slide against muscle and skin.

The marshal convulsed at the unexpected pain and screeched into the blade handle. Tears of pain leaked out of the corners of her eyes as veins bulged under the skin. Daryl held a piece of cloth to stop the bleeding and leaned his upper body forward to keep the marshal still.

It took several minutes for Samara to calm down and when she did, she was covered in a fine sheet of cold sweat. Her breathing was so labored that with each rise of her chest, Daryl rose with it. The hunter slowly rose off her and crouched next to her without moving his hand from the wound.

Daryl watched as the Native's whole body shook and how the woman snapped her head to the side to vomit once again. Grimacing, he watched as saliva dripped onto the floor, mingling with the woman's dark hair.

Spitting another wad of saliva, Samara rolled on her back, or as much as she could considering Daryl was keeping her from bleeding to death.

"You said three, you asshole…" The marshal glared weakly at Daryl.

"I lied." Daryl murmured as he took off his sleeveless shirt and tied it around the Native's abdomen, leaving him in a used to be white wife-beater.

The bleeding wasn't profound, but Daryl wasn't a doctor so he couldn't tell if the wound was serious or not. But considering the location, the hunter was pretty sure they needed to get to Hershel.

Securing the knot tightly, Daryl checked the rest of her earning a rather disturbed scowl from the one in question.

"I'm just checkin' you for wounds. Don't get your panties in a bunch." He started off at her arms. There were cuts here and there, blood leaking out of them. Bruises that were already flourishing were present. Externally she looked alright for someone that just fell four meters onto concrete, but he couldn't speak for what was inside. She could have internal bleeding, broken bones or maybe her back was fucked beyond recognition, Daryl didn't know.

_Hiss._

Daryl froze.

He hoped to god he didn't just hear that.

_Groan._

Arctic blue eyes flickered up to the hole in the kitchen floor. Thumps and something dragging across the floor approached the hole. Readying his crossbow, Daryl waited for the walker to appear. Despite the pain, the marshal used her arms to drag her body from the crash site. She would rather not have another corpse land atop her.

The arrow flew once the undead appeared into his vision. Hitting its target, the walker fell right through the hole and in the spot where Samara had been.

_Shit…_

The hunter observed the undead woman with growing worry. Making his mind, Daryl reached Samara and took a hold of her arms. They needed to leave.

"We have to go. If that walker heard all that noise, others probably have."And having a hoard come after them, with Samara injured as she was, was not something he wanted to handle right now.

"I'll try." The pain was beginning to advance to every corner of her body.

Daryl tightened his grip on her arms and pulled with all his might. Samara howled as she felt her bones pop and her back…Her back felt like it just exploded.

"Let me go!"

"Can't."

It was a struggle. Samara was resisting getting up while Daryl was trying to do just that. It was like a children's game. Each child pulled from one end, the winner being the one that broke the string first. And Samara wasn't about to lose.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Daryl took hold of her shoulders and shook the injured marshal, hoping to get through her thick skull. "Stop and listen to me! We need to leave, right now. Or do you want the geeks on top of us? Huh?"

Samara pressed her lips into a thin line. She knew that he was right, but…her injuries…

"…Alright." Swallowing the pain, she gripped his hands tightly and pushed herself off the floor with all her might. Waves of pain rushed through her body, stars dancing across her eyes. Samara could feel her muscles grind against one another and bones awkwardly move.

"Aaaarghh!" The screams slipped past her clenched teeth, producing a horrible guttural sound.

Daryl used all his strength to place her on her feet. The woman would have tipped over if the hunter hadn't caught her, keeping her secure against his frame. He was beginning to regret his decision when he felt her entire body shake.

"We gotta move." He said as he readjusted the Native in his arms. One of hers was over his shoulders while he kept one of his around her waist, mindful of her injury.

"Where's my gun?" Only now remembering, she looked around frantically. They couldn't leave without it.

"Shit." Daryl looked her over and noticed her silenced gun to be missing. He cursed as he knew the importance of that one piece. The gun they could do without, but the silencer…

Gently, Daryl moved Samara to the staircase leading upstairs and left her leaning against the banister while he searched for the weapon. Moving the rotted wood out of his way, the hunter's sharp gaze looked over every inch of the basement floor. Finally, he found it next to the dead soldier and hurriedly placed it at the back of his jeans.

—They had spent enough time in this city. It was time to go.

It took time to reach the top of the stairs. Samara's body was uncooperative and she was pushing herself to the extreme. Right now the woman should have been in a hospital room with one of those neck braces on, being poked and prodded by doctors. But there were no such luxuries anymore.

Daryl was aware of how much of her weight she was distributing to him and he was alright with that. She was barely moving her feet and if he could shoulder the majority of her burdens, then that meant they could move faster. Her free hand was tightly gripping the front of his wife-beater and he could feel the sweat from her palm dampen his top.

Stepping outside, Daryl cursed sharply. There were walkers in the streets. Not many, but enough to make him worry. They weren't in any shape to handle the normal amount right now.

With a sharp turn, the hunter quickened their pace. The woman against him hissed and groaned in pain and he mentally apologized.

It felt like hours passed until they reached the main road. The walkers were still running behind them. Thankfully, the pair was slightly faster than the undead's slow shuffle. Daryl had noticed that Samara's wound was bleeding through the makeshift bandage. The smell of blood was probably going to attract more walkers.

Sweat was pouring down his face. In between keeping his eyes out for any possible threat and carrying an injured woman, Daryl had to work for two since Samara was practically out of commission. The tension was high in his body, the grip on the silenced gun crushing. Luckily for them, there were no other walkers in the vicinity. There were just the ones in the back.

Turning south, they headed towards the Community &amp; Administration building and they would have gone past it and be free if it weren't for one small problem.

Or a very big one…

Daryl and Samara stopped in their tracks and watched with bathed breath as the double doors to the building slowly opened. It seemed that they weren't as locked as they had thought.

In those few seconds, the hunter literally felt his heart travel up to his neck and lodge itself there. The frantic beat of his organ could be felt all the way up to his brain as the eerie screech of those heavy doors disturbed the silence of the town.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Groan. Hiss. Moan.

"Oh gods…"

Samara's voice was so small and weak, completely different from her usual hardened one. With wide, fearful eyes, she turned towards the hunter, pleading for something…anything. "Daryl…"

One word. That was all the hunter needed to know that they were in serious trouble.

"Run!"

He whirled himself and Samara around and ran, forgoing any problems or damages that the both of them might have. There was no time for that. Daryl didn't even need to look behind to know that there was a hoard of walkers exiting the building and chasing after them, snapping their teeth in hunger.

"Fuck!"

Daryl snapped as now walkers came from behind and from their right. Aiming the silenced gun, he shot the ones coming from the sides as they were the closest. Adrenaline pumped through his body giving him that extra energy to push both of them further. All his senses were so heightened that he felt like his head was going to explode. His eyes frantically searched the surroundings for salvation. Entering the buildings was out of the question. The amount of walkers after them would topple down any window or thin wall. They needed to find a car. A working one. Or maybe some way to get atop one of the buildings.

The surprise awaiting them further up the street put an end to their search for transportation. Walkers appeared from a fork in the road, all their eyes set on them. Skidding to a halt, Daryl turned around worriedly, looking for salvation.

With shaky fingers, Samara lifted one of her guns and started shooting at the incoming walkers. Desperation coursed through her veins and prompted her to act. The marshal had no way to escape on her own. She was too banged up to even run, only managing it up until now because of Dixon. Through bleary eyes, she saw the incoming dead and. They. Weren't. Stopping.

Wave after wave came from all directions, cutting them off from running. Their only option now was to barricade themselves in one of the buildings on their right.

Gunshots along with the sounds of the undead rang in the emptiness of the town.

Daryl gritted his teeth as he backed away towards the buildings with Samara. For every walker that got too close to them a bullet lodged itself in their heads. The problem was that neither combined had enough bullets for the whole hoard. Soon Daryl would have to use his arrows and then they both would be down to blades.

The nasty feeling at the back of his mind kept telling him that they weren't going to make it.

Reaching one of the buildings, Daryl banged against the door with all his might. It didn't budge not even an inch. Checking it over he saw the chained padlock around the door.

_Shit_.

The windows were barred with grates so there was no way in through there. Looking up, he looked for a way to climb the building. Alone he could have done it, but there was no way Samara could do it in her condition.

There was a moment. Just a tiny moment where his flight instinct took over and he seriously considered leaving the wounded marshal behind to save himself.

These dark thoughts were halted by Samara's distressed voice.

"Fuck, we're blocked!"

Icy blue eyes shot towards the street. The marshal was right. The walkers formed a half circle, pinning them against the buildings. If it weren't for the last cartridges of bullets they had they would have been dead by now.

How did this happen? One moment they were quietly scavenging for goods, no walkers in sight. Next moment, a few gunshots rang out and the whole town seemed to come alive. And now they were backed away into a corner, no way out.

—Is this it? Is this their last stand?

"Fuck! Fuck!" Samara screeched as horror filled her eyes. There were too many and they were too few. "Daryl, what the fuck are we going to do?!"

"Keep shootin'!" Emptying his gun he threw the pistol on the ground. Readying his crossbow, he began to fire.

Two arrows was all he could shoot before he saw from the corner of his eye that Samara stopped shooting and let her gun arm fall limply to her side.

"What are you doin'? Shoot!"

She looked at him as if in a haze. "I only have one bullet left." Her olive greens moved to the never ending sea of dead. The marshal flinched as she saw them gnash their teeth as if already tasting their flesh.

She shook her head in denial as she took a step back. "I'm not going to die like this. I'm not going to become these putrid fucks' dinner."

Daryl looked over to her. He didn't like the tone of her voice. It seemed…resigned. "The fuck are you sayin'?"

"If I have to die, I'm going out on my own terms." Her fingers clenched around the handle of her gun. "Destroy the brain. I don't want to come back as one of them."

It dawned on him what she was talking about.

A weak smile.

"Sorry."

Panic.

"Samara!"

_Bang_.

* * *

_**Foot Note:**_ Cliffhanger! So evil!

Hey, if the show can do it, why can't I?

_**PS:**_I don't like this chapter.

I wrote it over the span of several months and each word seems forced. In my head the scenes go smoothly, but I just can't put it into words on paper. And it is downright frustrating! Because this mini-arc is important for me. This is why it took so long to write. Every time I tried it just came out as shit and I immediately disliked it and became disenchanted with writing.

I just hope that the next chapter goes smoothly.


	16. One of Us

**Note:** Wow, I actually updated before New Year's. That's an achievement.

Does anyone know how I can add a link to my profile? Or write it in a way that it doesn't get blank spaced. I tried before but only a white space appears with no link. Pretty please enlighten me. I need it for my Naruto fic.

Enjoy!

* * *

_Bang_.

Hunter and marshal froze.

The gun in the marshal's hand hadn't even reached underneath her chin, let alone discharged. Daryl's gun didn't have any more bullets, so…

Something heavy toppled over. Eyes front, they noticed the unmoving walker on the ground, a bullet hole in the back of its bald head.

_What…?_

"Up here!"

Behind them, atop the building, was a man with a rifle. Samara and Daryl both gazed at him stupefied. Who was he? Where had he come from? Even the walkers seemed to have paused at this new development.

For a second the man disappeared and in the next moment he appeared with one of those extendable steel ladders in hand. Samara backed away as the ladder end hit the ground.

"Come on! It's a little shaky but you can climb!"

The marshal remained rooted. Everything was happening too fast with not enough time to deliberate. She did not trust this benevolent stranger, but neither did she want to die.

"Go! I'll be right behind ya!" Daryl bellowed as he took Samara's machete from her belt and started hacking away at the now advancing undead.

Samara gave the hunter a bewildered look to which he returned it with an impatient, but confident one.

_Climb_.

With a deep breath she shuffled over to the ladder and gingerly climbed. Halfway in she stopped, the pain in her back and abdomen flaring. Her hands shook as she held on strongly, her eyes closed shut and her teeth grinding against one another. Strengthening her self-control, Samara took another shaky step only to have the pain pulsate like the bass of a concert speaker.

A small whine slipped past her lips and she stopped altogether, too afraid of the pain to continue on.

"Oh gods…I can't." She said between clenched teeth as a small string of saliva dripped down her chin.

Daryl threw her a quick glance as he scalped a walker. The woman was halfway up the ladder and if she didn't climb all of it in the next few minutes they both will become dinner.

"Is that the best you can do, squaw? You get scared by a little bit of height?" Daryl antagonized her, knowing how she reacted to being challenged. "Shit, you're a pussy!"

The woman scowled foully. "Fuck you, hillbilly."

With a growl, Samara willed her limbs to move and advanced more rapidly along the ladder. Reaching the top, the stranger paused in shooting undead and helped her. Samara dropped on the roof, exhausted beyond reason. She wrapped her arm around her midsection, putting pressure on her wound.

"Come on, dude!" The man yelled at the hunter bellow as he reloaded his rifle and began shooting again.

Daryl waited no further prompting and quickly escalated the ladder, the undead's arms missing his feet by a few inches. Once atop, he helped the stranger in retrieving the ladder. It proved more difficult at first as the walkers hung onto it, but a few well placed bullets and the ladder was theirs.

Dropping the ladder and machete, Daryl leaned over himself and braced his knees. Panting with sweat pouring down his face, the hunter's hands slightly shook as the terror was leaving his heart. It had been too close, this encounter with death. If it hadn't been for this fortunate new development then he and the marshal would have died on this day.

He grimaced slightly when the groans of the undead coupled with their scratching of the wall and banging against it reached his ears. Those sounds had been too close for comfort.

"Man, that was close." The stranger breathed in relief as he readjusted his rifle over his shoulder. "You two are lucky as hell."

Daryl eyed the man shrewdly. He was Middle-Eastern by the look of him, but lacked any sort of accent. He was neither malnourished nor desperate. There was a four o'clock shadow on his face and the weapon in his hand didn't look like one you could buy from a local weapon shop.

"Who the hell are you?" While exhausted, Daryl was still on guard.

"My name's Omid. It's nice to meet people that don't look at me like I'm Saturday night dinner." He smiled at them warmly. His dark eyes slid to the woman still on the ground curled up on herself. "Hey, are you alright?"

"No." Samara said between clenched teeth. "No, I'm not alright."

Only now remembering that the woman was injured, Daryl turned his attention towards her. Reaching her side, he carefully dislodged her hand from her bandage and inspected her injury. It was still bleeding. His eyes traveled to her arm that shook vigorously. It wasn't just her arm but her whole body that vibrated worriedly.

"I don't feel good."

_Shit_, the hunter thought somberly. _This is bad._

"What happened to her?" The stranger approached, concern written all over his face, and once within reach, Daryl jumped him.

"Hey! Hey! What are you doing?!"

The man, Omid, struggled as Daryl relieved him of his weapon and squared him in the jaw with the end of the rifle. Falling on the roof, Daryl grounded the sole of his boot against Omid's chest and pointed the gun to his head. The fear was obvious now in the man's eyes.

"Who the hell are you and how did you find us?"

With his hands raised in a placating gesture, the man eyed his own gun warily. "I already told you, man. My name's Omid. And I've been watching you since you entered the main street."

"Why?" He pressed the gun barrel against his temple harshly. "You plannin' on robbin' us, huh? Kill us?"

"Wow, hey no! I didn't mean it like that. I mean, I just—"

"Oh for the love of gods…I'm bleeding to death here!" Samara had been listening to their interaction and she was fed up. Blood was continuously flowing out of her and Dixon was fucking around instead of getting help. "Daryl, if he wanted us dead, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of helping us."

Daryl paused, but did not remove the rifle from Omid's head.

"Yeah, like she said. Look man, I was out here looking for supplies when I saw you two running. I helped you because you really looked like you needed it. I wasn't trying to get anything from you."

Icy blue eyes narrowed further but otherwise nothing else changed. The hunter watched him carefully. He didn't seem to be lying. Either that or he was a very good at deceiving.

"Daryl!"

The Native's shout spurred him into action. He decided on his course. Right now, he needed to get the marshal back to camp and under Hershel's medical care.

Dixon stepped away from the man and slung the rifle over his shoulder, next to his crossbow. Omid stood up quickly and stepped away from the pair. He gently massaged the spot where the hunter had stepped on.

"Hey, stranger…" Samara's shaky voice disrupted the tension between the two men. They both turned their attention to the woman. "Do you have any medical supplies where you came from?"

"Well no, but Iréne could look at you." At the confused looks he received, Omid explained. "My group is just a few streets away. We have a doctor." He turned to Daryl. "She could look over your wife."

The hunter frowned. "She's not—"

"Yes. Please." Samara groaned as she spat a wad of blood. "Take me to your doctor."

"It's that way." He pointed east. "We've been holed up in a firehouse for the last month."

_That explains the ladder_, Samara thought.

Daryl's frown deepened. He didn't like this. Following an unknown man to his group without any knowledge beforehand. What if this was a trap? What if they were marauders? His gaze turned to Samara. But what choice did he have right now? It was either trust this Omid guy, or stay and watch the marshal die slowly.

"Fine. We'll follow you back to your people." Daryl said as he stepped closer in a threatening manner. "But I'm watchin' you. You try anythin' and I'll put a bullet through your skull."

"Chill, man." Omid threw up his hands up again. "My friends are alright."

Daryl backed away and reached the marshal. She was a sad sight. Her russet skin was pale and cheek flushed a deep red. The dark circles underneath her eyes grew and she was barely keeping her eyes open.

Gently, he helped the woman to her feet. She barely stood, as her legs threatened to collapse. Seeing this, the hunter placed her arm around his shoulder and wrapped his arm around her waist.

"Can you walk?"

"I don't really have a choice." Samara gritted her teeth as she felt her wounds strain with the movements. "Where is this firehouse?"

"Two streets from here." He said as he retrieved the ladder. "We're going to use this to cross the buildings. Trust me, this way it's better than the ground. The undead get confused like this."

The pair gave each other a look at the prospect of crossing buildings via a steel ladder, but they had little options right now. It was either this or running again.

* * *

It took longer than they had thought. Along the way, Samara had twice refused to cross the buildings, stopped many times along it because of exhaustion, pain or the threat of passing out. As time stretched, the marshal faded one tiny bit at a time. Blood kept leaking out of her without any stopping in sight. Daryl feared that she would not make it to the firehouse alive, but the woman persevered.

"There it is." Omid pointed out at the two story structure. There was only one building adjunct it and the rest was open space.

"The hell?" Daryl tensed as he saw the downed walkers surrounding the building. More than a dozen where littered around, almost like a barrier.

"Yeah, that…I forgot about that." Omid scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. "The undead's smell covers ours so we left them around the firehouse. We haven't had ghouls in this area since we came. Kind of like our own guard dogs."

They had to step down to the ground to reach the firehouse. Omid carried the ladder as Daryl dragged Samara until they reached the large garage doors. Omid tapped against the metal in a particular fashion. A few seconds later one of the doors raised just enough that you could crouch underneath it. Omid was first, then Daryl with Samara.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Daryl frown deepened. The man was…strange. The hunter couldn't understand how he could still be so happy-go-lucky with what surrounded them.

"Omid!" The hunter heard more than saw an angry woman, worry latched to her voice. "Finally. Where have—" The woman, an African-American in her late 20's, was standing next to Omid, her eyes narrowed on the pair of them. "Who the hell are you?"

"I found them by the main road. They were being chased by the undead, so I helped them." He then smirked and wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Can we keep them?"

At the mention of the dead, the woman's fear spiked. "Did _they_ follow you here?"

"No, babe. We used the roofs. You know, like Batman would."

"Omid…" She loved him, but sometimes…she just wanted to strangle him. The woman turned her gaze to the two new additions with very little trust in her dark orbs. "My name's Christa. I—" Her gaze traveled lower on Samara. "You're bleeding…Were you bit?"

"No." Samara shook her head as she coughed. "Fell and landed on a piece of wood." Green eyes moved back to Omid. "Is she the doctor?"

"Oh, yeah. Babe, where's Iréne?"

"She's with Otto, upstairs."

The Persian man frowned anxiously. "How is he?"

"Still the same."

"Can you tell her to come down?" He eyed the marshal's wound. "It's pretty serious."

Christa nodded and headed towards the stairs. "Take them to the back room. There's a table there where Iréne can work on her."

Omid nodded as he watched her departed and only when she was out of sight did he motion the hunter and marshal. "Come on."

* * *

Samara laid down on the table, not even caring that she was bleeding all over it. The room was a small office with a few pieces of furniture placed about. Daryl was standing next to the table, attending to his weapons. His fidgeting was just an excuse to not worry about the marshal. She looked bad. _Really_ bad. He's had a similar wound but he hadn't been that worse. The fact that she was still bleeding was upsetting.

–He had three arrows left. He was going to need to make new ones when they head back to camp.

The hunter sighed. When will they go back? Not today, either way. The Native wouldn't be able to move for at least two days. He knew from experience.

Omid had left them to seek the doctor. They had been waiting for ten minutes and there had been no sight of her. Both hunter and marshal began to get impatient and threatened the Persian with imminent parting of limbs. That had him moving rather quickly.

"Do you trust these people?" Daryl asked as he watched the door with sharp eyes.

Samara grunted as she spat a wad of blood. "Fuck no, but I don't have a choice right now."

Not even a few seconds later, the door opened and Christa accompanied by Omid and an unnamed woman entered. The woman, a blonde in her late 40's with light blue eyes and a stern expression, was most likely the doctor Omid had been talking about.

The blonde wasted no time and approached Samara. With experienced hands, she inspected the wound. There seemed to be a haste to her movements as if this was a hindrance to her initial plans. Whoever she was taking care of seemed to be far more important than attending to Samara.

With clenched teeth and hisses of pain, Samara gripped the edges of the table with white knuckles. She watched as the woman poked and prodded her without much empathy.

_Fucking doctors…_

After a few minutes, Iréne finished her inspection and looked the marshal in the eye. What came out of her mouth though, gave pause to both marshal and hunter.

—French.

Finishing her little monologue, Daryl gave the woman a scowl while Samara eyed her in confusion.

"Talk English, woman. We don't speak frog."

Christa gave the hunter a deadpan look. "You're a _real_ charmer."

"She said that your wife's injury is serious." Omid supplied with a translation.

Another frown line appeared on the hunter's brow. "She's not—"

"How serious?" Samara interrupted, not caring for the confusion at the moment. She had other pressing matters.

Again the woman spoke French.

"You don't speak English at all." Samara's head dropped back to the table with a groan. _Fantastic_.

"Don't worry, I speak French. I'll translate." Word by word Omid spoke the words Irené couldn't. "She said that there's something lodged in your abdomen. That's why you keep bleeding."

_Guess that explains why it feels like my stomach is getting run through a meat grinder._

The French woman gesticulated towards Samara's abdomen.

"She's asking how this happened."

Samara began retelling the story of how she ended up in such a sorry mess. Irené frowned and then inspected the wound some more. The frown settled in more deeply with each passing second.

"She said that you don't have any perforated organs, which is extremely lucky. But…there's another problem."

A tired sigh left the injured woman. _It had to be another thing_. "What?"

"An infection has set in and if left untreated it could kill you."

"At least you don't sugarcoat it." Samara croaked. She should have expected this. After the fall, the run and the climbing, dirt and microbes would have gotten into the gash.

"You need antibiotics, tetanus shot, sutures."

Christa frowned as she crossed her arms. "As far as I know, we don't have any of those things lying around here."

"No, _we_ don't." Omid scratched the back of his head nervously. "But _they_ do."

The temperature in the room felt like it dropped a few degrees. Christa's eyes widened in shock, before narrowing them fiercely on her boyfriend. "No, Omid. That's insane. Last time we went there, we lost Horace. You won't be able to get near it again."

"Where?" Daryl took a step forward, his grip on his crossbow tightening.

Omid paused in his conversation with his girlfriend and staggered on his words. He didn't want to tell the stranger but, as he saw it, they had no choice if the man wanted his wife alive. "The Atlanta Motor Speedway. It's a NASCAR track. Horace, the man Christa was talking about, was a local. He told us that when the epidemic started the army seized the tracks and transformed it into their HQ. Almost everything that Hampton had in supplies was taken there and that includes medical."

Daryl closed his eyes for a second. Dammit. A race track is an enclosed space with lots of corners for people or walkers to hide. Not to mention if the army camped there, then the possibility of the Speedway being full of the dead was highly possible. His pale blues slid towards the Native on the table. There was a pool of blood slowly forming underneath her which the blonde doctor was keeping it from dribbling down the edge of the flat wooden surface. The marshal didn't look very aware of herself as her lids kept fluttering and her gaze unfocused every few seconds.

The way Daryl saw it, he only had two choices: remain here until morning and head out for the car, get the marshal and head back to the farm, all the way hoping that the Native doesn't croak, or he can go after the medical supplies, wait for the marshal to heal enough to walk so they can get out of here. Option two would take too long, probably a few days since it took him about three or four to stand after the arrow.

"Tell me where it is. I'll go."

Samara looked at him from the corner of her eye. Even in her numb state she still understood what the hunter just agreed too. Daryl didn't acknowledge her probing stare.

Christa frowned deeper as a sense of dread crawled over her skin. "You don't understand. That place is filled with soldiers. And not the kind that protect and serve."

"I don't have a choice." His gruff voice cut her off. He'd rather not have anyone try to dissuade him from his decision, because he feared they might succeed.

As the hunter readjusted his crossbow, the determined but still anxious voice of Omid gave him pause.

"I'll take you there."

His girlfriend wasn't too happy about that.

"Omid, no!"

"Babe, if we don't get the medicine, she's not going to make it." He gently put his hands on the woman's shoulders. A reassuring gesture but it only made Christa tense further. "It would be a dick move if I'd just watch her die instead of doing something about it."

Christa shoved the hands away from her and grabbed onto his shirt with white knuckles. "You don't have to act like a hero. You're not impressing anyone, least of all me."

"I brought them here because I thought we could help them. I can't just stand around and do nothing while she bleeds out. I can't watch another person die." His tone gradually decreased, lowering down to a sad whisper. "Besides, I still need to get the medicine for Otto."

"Goddammit, Omid." The dark woman ran a shaky hand through her hair as she glared at her boyfriend. Every time he made an excursion outside a little bit of her heart withered. She could never tell when that would be the last time she would see him, and so she waited with clenched jaw and churning stomach.

The Persian took his girlfriend in his arms and soothingly ran his hand over her back while whispering sweet words into her ear. "It'll be alright, Christa. It's _me_ we're talking about."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

He snorted in weak amusement.

"Oh ye of little faith."

* * *

Daryl's mind was working furiously as he headed back towards Samara's room. He had left about twenty minutes ago to make plans with Omid. The man showed the hunter a map of the NASCAR circuit and the area where a makeshift hospital had been built. They needed to get there if they wanted medicine since everything the town had had been taken to the circuit.

Daryl had briefly wondered about leaving for another town and getting the supplies from there, but there was no guarantee the medical centers hadn't been ransacked.

Entering the room, he found the marshal in the same place, only this time her abdomen was fully bandaged. The French woman was checking the wrappings methodically, almost like a robot. Upon noticing him, the doctor paused in her work.

Blue eyes narrowed in annoyance when the woman spoke again in French. "I still can't understand you and it ain't gonna change anytime soon."

The blonde frowned and then gathered her belongings. She left the room in a hurry, not even looking back once. Daryl approached the Native and sat on the recently vacant chair.

She looked like shit. A few shades paler and her eyes were glassy and barely able to keep themselves open. Samara didn't notice his arrival until after a few moments. Her olive greens tried to focus on him with mild success. Daryl could tell that the woman was under some sort of opioid. He's seen his share of high people before and knew what they looked like.

"I'm gonna head out. Find the medicine you need."

Samara nods weakly.

"Don't know how long I'll be gone. Maybe a few hours."

"Alright…" Her voice sounded ragged, as if water was an extinct substance. Her tongue sneaked out to lick her dry, chapped lips. "Where…is the…NASCAR track?"

"The other side of town."

"Heh…you should feel…right at home there."

The corner of his lips twitched. Even with one foot in the grave, she still had enough strength to take a bite out of him.

His gaze settled on her bandaged body again. "How're you feelin'?"

A loopy smirk formed. "I feel high…" The smile turned to a painful grimace. "And like someone ran over me with a truck."

The fact that she was acting so casual sparked the hunter's ire. With each passing second it grew and grew like an infection, poisoning his soul. Was she ever going to bring up what happened back with the walkers? Her little moment of insanity? She didn't get to act like nothing happened! That what she almost did could be swept under the goddamn rug!

—But what he couldn't forgive the most was the fact that his stomach shriveled up in horror at the knowledge that in those moments she was going to splatter her brains on the pavement and he couldn't do a _goddamn_ thing to stop her.

_Bang._

The loud crash that followed shook off some of the painkillers in Samara's system. Daryl had smashed his fist onto the table she laid on, shocking the woman.

"What the fuck were you thinkin'?"

His low and threatening voice made the Native's hackle rise.

In her doped up state, it took a while for her to understand what he was referring too. Her expression flattened and emptied itself. The repercussion of what she almost did where finally reaching her understanding. And the fact that Dixon was the one that had too witness that was just the cherry on top.

In guilty shame and stubborn pride, she turned her head away. She didn't need to see the accusation in his eyes or the loathing.

"What was that? Is this your solution, huh? Killin' yourself?" He grabbed her jaw firmly and turned her head towards him so she could acknowledge the serious situation. "Shit, I thought you were a survivor, not some pussy that opts out at the first sign of trouble."

"Fuck you." Angry, Samara struggled out of Daryl's grip and glared as hard as she could in her condition. "What the hell do you know? It's better than suffering a slow and torturous death. You would do the same."

"Nah, I would fight."

"And what happens when you can't fight anymore?" Her hostile expression softened, leaving her tired and jaded. "I reached the end of my line back there and that was my escape plan. I've had this thought out since the outbreak started. I don't want to die, but I don't want to turn into one of them or become their food either. I'm not that brave to go through them ripping me apart because I'm too set in my views about suicide. It's a luxury these days that few can afford."

The perpetual frown remained on the hunter's brow. While he saw the logic in her thoughts, he still couldn't agree with them. Quitting was quitting. Right now, you either die on your feet or choose the easy way out. Daryl had never once thought of going out that way, even if there was no other option left. He just couldn't understand why _she_ would think like this.

"If you ever do that again while I'm around, I'll beat the livin' shit out of you." The line was delivered so flatly and clear that it kicked Samara's defenses in. He was actually, _really,_ threatening her.

"Why do you even care?" She was confused.

Some of the lines on his temple cleared out, his face taking on a more neutral appearance. "Like it or not, you're one of us. And we look after our own."

The incredulity was evident on the Native. For Daryl Dixon to proclaim something like that, something about _her_, was…_abnormal_.

The silence was becoming awkward and it got increasingly harder to stay in each other's presence. Daryl bit the skin around his nail in anxiety before realizing what he was doing and scowling. He avoided catching the Native's eye and preferred to stare at the cracked walls. Samara was the first to break the silence with an intelligible uhm, prompting the hunter to take a few steps back.

"I'll…come back as soon as I can." He repositioned his crossbow over his shoulder and threw a glance her way. "Try not to croak until then."

With that he left brusquely, leaving Samara as confused as before.

"…I'll try."

* * *

Dixon had been gone for an hour a while now and Samara was still thinking of what he said to her.

_You're one of us._

Was she? She still didn't felt like one of them even after the weeks they had lived together. Sure, she had started to get more involved with them, but one of them…? She didn't know. But what troubled her was the fact that Daryl considered her one of them, after everything that's happened. Had the waters calmed between them?

…_We look after our own…_

She couldn't say that that wasn't true. What happened today was a testimony of that. He hadn't abandoned her to the walkers even thought she dragged him back. He could have…_she_ would have in his place. If he had been on his own he could have easily escaped but he stayed behind with her, even helped her run.

She was grateful for that. If he hadn't been there…

Samara sighed heavily. Even with the painkillers her body still hurt, especially her abdomen. After Daryl left, Iréne returned and continued her care for the marshal. She didn't speak since it would be a waste, neither understanding each other.

The marshal's eyes shifted to the only window in the room. Even with the shutters closed, the light of the sun still slithered through the tiny cracks. Samara wondered what time it was—how much time had passed since the walkers. She wondered if the others had noticed their disappearance. Hers most likely, Daryl's probably not yet. The Atlanta crew was used to the hunter's late comings, and Rick knew he could handle himself in the forest. But it won't be soon until they realize that _maybe_ the hunter crossed paths with the marshal in the forest. She wondered if Rick was worried about her or if he thought that she just skipped town, leaving everything behind. Maybe Lori or Shane would convince him that she was dead and that they should steal her belongings and cook the dog—

Samara blinked.

_What…the hell…am I thinking?_

The edge of her vision was blurred and sometimes objects shivered as if in a distant mirage. Only now noticing the changes in vision, Samara attempted to rub her eyes only for her arm to fall back down. It felt heavy…too heavy. Her thoughts were sloppy, making it hard to think.

"I feel strange."

The French woman looked at her in confusion.

"Hey! I can't see straight."

Nothing.

"Get Christa. Christa!"

This time she understood and left the room. Not even two minutes later, the dark woman appeared, a frown on her face.

"I don't feel good."

She walked to her side and placed a hand on her forehead. Her frown deepened and worry etched into her eyes.

"Shit, your skin's burning."

Christa grabbed Iréne's hand and placed her on the marshal's forehead. The woman mirrored Christa's frown and began checking more thoroughly.

"I can't see straight and my arms feel heavy."

Iréne began speaking hurriedly in French as she checked Samara's vision by making her follow a pencil.

"I really hate this language barrier crap." Christa mumbled as she rubbed the side of her face in annoyance.

The blonde doctor began pointing towards her head and mimicking extreme heat.

"Yeah, I know she has a fever." The dark woman crossed her arms. "Can you—cool her down?" Christa began rubbing her arms as if cold.

The French woman shook her head. "C'est impossible. Nous avons pas de glace ou d'eau froide."

"Impossible…That's just great." Christa ran her palms over her face and up into her hair. "Christ, we didn't need this."

"_Thanks_." Samara spat derisively. "Sorry my dying is ruining your day."

The woman let her arms fall to her sides, and sincerely apologized. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. It's just that we had problems even before you two showed up."

"I get it. We're the cherry on top." Samara let out a shaky breath as she felt a dizzy spell run over her again. "I need medicine. _Now_."

"Don't think about it." Christa sat next to her and placed her hand gently on her arm only to have it shrugged off. The woman scoffed and crossed her arms thoughtfully. "Why did you come here to Hampton? Just passing through or scavenging?"

If they couldn't help the Native medically at least Christa could keep her talking. That's what you usually did with people that were about to lose consciousness. Maybe it would work here.

"We were looking for supplies. We ran out of food yesterday and decided to search this town. It's my fault that we ended up surrounded." Samara closed her eyes in resignation and guilt. She could still see the events of today clearly. The anger, the fear, the desperation. "It's all my fault…"

"Shit, I'm not good with this." Christa sighed exasperatedly. "You can't blame yourself for something out of your control. You couldn't have known that you were going to get hurt or that the undead would hear you."

Samara shook her head. "I should have just listened to Daryl and left when we had the chance. Coming here was fucking stupid."

It had been a stupid idea from the beginning, she knew that. But she was stubborn, and wanted her space. Even at the expense of her safety and Dixon's.

"Despite you're husband being a bit of a jackass, he obviously loves you enough to put his life in danger."

"Yeah..." The marshal grimaced slightly. _Husband_…_They probably think that because of my wedding ring._ "How did you and Omid end up here?" Samara rapidly changed the subject.

"We were on a road trip when the virus hit. Headed for Atlanta when we heard that it was a safe zone only to find it in ruins." Christa shook her head to rid herself of the morbid memories. "We met Iréne and Otto outside Atlanta and from there we headed south. Car broke down outside Hampton, so we went in search for gas. That was when Horace found us and brought us here."

"Who are Horace and Otto?"

"Horace was a firefighter from this house, and Otto is Iréne's husband. Otto's sick right now…"

"Bit?"

"No. He had a small stroke two days ago. I'm not a doctor, but even I can tell that if he doesn't get help soon, he'll die."

_Shit. If the French guy dies, he'll turn._ _Should I tell them that now or wait until he dies?_

_Dammit, Dixon. Get your ass back here!_

* * *

"Place looks heavily fortified."

Daryl put the binoculars down. He and Omid were atop the roof of a building overlooking the NASCAR track. It was neither close nor too far away, just enough so they could get a better view. The circuit was oval in shape with high walls of concrete and chain link fences. But what Daryl saw didn't please him. There were barb wires around the walls of the circuit with unmoving walkers hanging off them. On the parking lots and driveways were piles of cars, and undead, some downed others still moving about slowly. For a place filled with soldiers and civilians, it was remarkably quiet. The only noises heard were their silent breaths and the light autumn breeze.

"Yeah…Luckily, Horace knew a way in that the army doesn't. That's how he escaped in the first place." Omid picked up the binoculars and looked over the walls.

"Escaped?"

"When the virus hit, the people of Hampton and neighboring towns were brought here. Kinda like a safe zone." His tone then got lower and darker. "But…Horace told us that three months after the epidemic started, the soldiers began to change. They got more aggressive, more controlling. Every move you made they saw and if they didn't like something, there was a chance you got beat up or worse. When people wanted to leave, they would forcefully stop them. Horace had enough after people started disappearing and managed to escape. He had been hiding in his old firehouse ever since."

"And nobody came searchin' for him?"

Omid shrugged. "I don't think they wanted to bother with one guy."

The hunter's gaze squinted as it returned to the circuit. "Don't see any soldiers."

"Yeah…about that." Omid fidgeted nervously. "About a week ago we heard gunfire. And I don't mean a few shots, I mean full out Normandy Invasion. That's what brought the dead here. Before, we had so few undead that it was safe to walk the streets, now we have to use the rooftops."

"And you're tellin' me this now?!" The deep snarl verged on an animalistic one while his blue eyes froze over in annoyance.

The Persian raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry, it's just…I didn't know if you'd still go."

"I still need those supplies!" His anger deflated within a few seconds leaving only a sour feeling in his mouth. "This don't change anythin'. I just don't like walkin' blindly."

"You and me both, man. Right now, I don't know if anyone is still alive in there or just dead things with a bad case of the munchies."

It was then that it hit Daryl. _Soldiers_…

"There was a soldier…He's the reason the Na—my _wife_ is all banged up." That word felt strange coming from his mouth.

"He was most likely from here." Omid thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "Although, they don't usually venture out by themselves. It's always in a group. Did he say anything?"

"Don't know. My _wife_ shot him before I could even talk to him."

Omid's lips quirked up. "Guess she's the 'shoot first, ask question later' type, huh?"

_You have no idea…_

Daryl rose from his laying position and walked low towards the fire escape stairwell. Omid was right behind him, attempting to imitate the hunter's silent steps but failing miserably.

"Where's that way in?" Daryl asked as he briskly descended the stairs.

"Through the sewers."

Daryl's face contorted in disgusted irritation. The prospect of trekking through filthy, hazardous sludge was not something he was looking forward too. He had become accustomed to the dirt of the road, but sewer muck…no.

"The medical ward is the eastern part of the circuit and the sewers end right in the basement underneath the commentator's booth."

Descending the last step, they ended in a narrow alley where a manhole was. Both men lifted the cover with a heave. Daryl was the first to descend as Omid felt reluctant to be the lead.

The Persian scrounged up his nose as the stench reached his nostrils. "Damn…Even the dead will run from us when that stink settles in."

* * *

"Oh God, it hurts!" Samara screeched through gritted teeth.

Several hours have passed since Daryl and Omid left for the NASCAR track. It was close to nightfall and Christa had left Samara in favor of overseeing the streets from the rooftop for any signs of the men. She was worried for her boyfriend. Samara had been left to her own devices with the doctor checking in on her every hour or so. The marshal could see the reluctance in the French woman's eyes every time she came to check her dressings as if her wounded state was more of a burden. While Samara understood that she was worried for her husband, it didn't mean the doctor should be so negligent with her.

As the hours passed, Samara's pain grew until she could no longer keep her voice to herself. She hissed and cursed and painfully lodged her fingernails into her palms. Soon after, droplets of blood slithered from her tightly wrapped fists. When the screaming started was when the doctor finally gave her her full attention.

"Calm down." Christa struggled to restrain the marshal from flailing around. She also had to control the wild arm attempting to scratch and/or punch her and the doctor.

The doctor spouted French quickly as she pressed bandages against the now gushing wound. Samara had started scratching the wound obsessively to the point that blood flew. Delirium settled in causing strange sightings for the woman, making her act out.

"Fuck! Get me some fucking pills!" Samara banged the back of her head against the table as her muscles bulged with the sheer force of her self-control. She badly wanted to scratch her skin off, hurt herself, anything to focus on instead of the burning pain in her abdomen. "I'm fucking dying!"

"Jesus, Iréne do something!"

The blonde shook her head despondently as there was little she could do without medical supplies. The wound needed cleaning, stitching also antibiotics to fight the infection that was spreading in her body which in turn caused her to hallucinate and her fever to spike dangerously.

"John! John, help me!" Her voice deepened as tears slipped from between her lashes to slowly roll into her hair. Despair and pain had brought her to an all new low. She had never felt this sort of pain before. She had been shot twice on duty, broke her leg and arm during her younger years, but none of those experiences hurt this much.

"I'm going to die…I'm going to die…I'm going to die…"

_When's John coming back?_

_He should have been back by now._

_I wonder if the office has those files ready on the fugitive—_

In those few moments, Christa loosened her grip since Samara stopped struggling abruptly. The dark woman feared the worst when the marshal became so unresponsive, only to have the Native's hand shoot out and grab her by the front of her shirt, pulling her down to her level with enough force to rattle her entire body.

"Shoot me in the head after I die." Her grim words were accentuated by the grave and guttural tone in which they were spoken.

Christa's eyes widened further in shock. "What?"

"Do it, or I _will_ kill you."

With that, Samara's eyes rolled back into her head and her mind slipped into blissful oblivion. Christa straightened out as the marshal's hand fell from her shirt. She knew the marshal was in a bad shape, but what she said…Christa didn't know if it was the fever or a small moment of clear consciousness that spoke those words. The reason for what she said was even more disturbing since there was no explanation.

Christa left the room and took a deep shaky breath. The woman won't last the night if she doesn't get medicine. The infection was spreading faster that they had thought, poisoning her bloodstream and disrupting the proper function of her organs. And on top of this Christa was worried for Omid, who was currently in the midst of a racecar track full with soldiers or undead. Or both.

Was he alive or was he—?

The dark woman was at a terrifying loss.


	17. Don't Fear the Owl

**Note:** I'm not sure if some of you know, but Christa and Omid are from the Walking Dead game. I liked them and thought of giving them a small cameo. To me, the game is part of TWD universe so them popping up is understandable.

Also, John (Samara's husband) is going to make a cameo in this chapter. Since the beginning I've pictured him as Idris Elba (loved him in The Wire and Luther *floating hearts*), but if you have someone else in mind you can use that.

Enjoy kiddies!

* * *

Christa jumped as a sudden loud noise disrupted the quiet of the firehouse. Grabbing her crowbar, she sprinted out of the chair next to Samara's cot and silently ran out of the room. With cautious steps she approached the garage doors where the banging came from. Licking her dry lips, the dark woman raised the crowbar defensively and waited. She didn't know who it was and the anxiety was getting to her. Omid wouldn't have knocked like that, he wasn't that stupid.

"Dammit, open the damn door!"

The gruff southern twang of the hunter put some of the woman's worries at ease, but—

"Where's Omid?"

"Here, babe. Open the door."

Christa released the breath she had been holding. Quickly she unlocked the hatch and raised the gate for the men to crouch inside. The dark woman almost dropped her crowbar when she saw them.

—They were a mess.

Blood and dirt was smeared all over their bodies and there was a foul odor permeating them. Once the door was closed and locked, Omid fell to the ground, the bags he was carrying dropping on the pavement with a loud thump. The Persian was panting heavily with sweat pouring down his face. The shaking wouldn't subside making his whole body rock. The hunter wasn't any different—he was bended over himself as he tried to catch his breath.

They had a total of two large rucksacks and one duffle bag with one of the rucksacks having gun barrels sticking out.

"Jesus, what happened?" Christa kneeled next to Omid to inspect his body for bites. "Are you wounded?"

"No, not my blood." Omid panted heavily, his voice breathless. "Undead…and others."

"What?"

"Found undead there and some soldiers that were holed up. Didn't end well." The Persian shakily wiped his brow, the events still all too vivid in his mind.

"The woman…How is she?" Daryl straightened out after he took hold one of the duffle bag.

"She's barely breathing."

"Got the supplies." He lifted the duffle bag. "Get that doctor down here."

Dixon departed towards Samara's room with brisk footsteps. After being assured by Omid that he was alright, Christa sprinted upstairs. The doctor was already up and ready for work. Both women hurried downstairs to join the hunter.

They found him unloading the duffle bag on the folding table that had been brought in earlier by Christa. Samara was unconscious, her chest rising periodically with concerning pauses in between. Irene dove head first in the supplies and smiled for the first time—everything was there, for her husband and for the stranger. The doctor called Omid to assist her in the process and despite his exhaustion, the man complied. The others were shooed out , Daryl with some difficulty as he was reluctant to leave after seeing the disastrous state the Native was in.

Effectively locked out, Christa and Daryl stood neither knowing what to do with themselves.

* * *

Daryl bit his thumb for the sixth time in the last half an hour.

His gaze kept going back to the closed door as his feet got him pacing around the spacious garage. His steps echoed as they bounced against the walls. His mind remained on the sorry state he found the marshal in. She looked like she was already on the way to the morgue.

The frown lines on his brow deepened. They had remained for far too long at the NASCAR track, but it hadn't been their fault. The situation had gotten out of hand and they had been forced to resort to some drastic measures. Shit, was it too late? Had his effort been in vain?

His teeth dug deeper into his skin.

"Hey!"

Daryl blinked as a waving hand appeared in front of his face. He turned towards the dark woman, a tinge of annoyance sharpening his eyes.

"Stop spacing out and tell me what happened." The woman crossed her arms with a huff and tapped her foot impatiently.

It hit Daryl then—he was still covered in blood and other human bits and pieces. He scowled as he inspected his destroyed beyond repair clothes. The memories of the last few hours assaulted him as he stared at the dark red. He needed a few minutes to arrange his thoughts so to transmit them verbally to the woman before him.

"The track was overrun with walkers." Daryl sighed as he sat on the steps of the only firetruck in the building. "We had to sneak through to get to the ground floor—

_Daryl bit his thumb as he overlooked the circuit from his high vantage. The building the sewer ended was the tallest and largest at the speedway. Looking over the track through the many high windows, he tried to map out a path towards the medical tents. The tents were, as Omid said, in the eastern part, and between them and the tents was a horde of walkers._

"_That's a lot of creeps." Omid said as he joined his side, his eyes widening in trepidation. "Must be everyone that tried to find salvation here."_

"_We're gonna have to distract them."_

"_With what?"_

_Blue eyes looked over the army vehicles and walker soldiers. "Place is full with weapons. Gotta be some grenades lyin' around."_

_Omid let out a nervous titter. "You want to throw grenades at them?"_

"_Just away from the tents. Give us enough time to take what we need."_

_With that Daryl started walking._

Daryl placed his elbows over his knees and leaned over his arms. "We found some dead soldiers with several kinds of grenades strapped to them. Took their weapons, ammo, everythin' they had that would help us. Filled two bags of 'em."

"_So, what's the plan?" Omid asked as he strapped a rifle and a handgun to his body._

"_You're gonna throw the grenades on the other side of the track while I get to the tents." Daryl instructed as he pocketed a flash bomb._

_The Persian paused in his ministrations. "Why me?"_

"_I'm faster."_

_Omid's shoulders sagged._

"_Throw the grenades from the windows. Use all of them if you have to; just keep 'em away from me."_

"_Fine, I'll do it. But there's something you have to get for me."_

_At Daryl's expectant gaze, Omid took a deep breath. "I need a pregnancy test. For Christa."_

_Without even a twitch in expression, the hunter nodded. The fact that Omid's girlfriend might be pregnant was not his concern or problem. Daryl mentally mapped the fastest way towards the medical ward. "Gimme that list."_

_The Persian handed him the list he composed following Iréne's instructions. Everything they needed was written there. Daryl didn't even know half of the things on the paper._

"_Come on." Daryl gave the man a grave look. "Get to the upper levels and the moment the walkers march, I run."_

"It was too easy." The hunter shook his head in irritation. "Should've known it wouldn't last. Nothin's ever easy these days. After I got the supplies was when hell started to break loose."

_Daryl ran as he carried the two large bags full of medicine and other curative equipment. The grenades had worked, although not all of them were standard ones. Some had been flash bombs other filled with gas—they had probably used them for crowd control._

_He had agreed with Omid to meet back at the sewer entrance, but as Daryl arrived there, there saw no sign of the man. He should have been there by now. The hunter waited not a minute further and left in pursuit of his temporary partner._

_He found him one story up, but how he found him Daryl did not expect._

"_Is anyone else here with you?"_

"_No, man. I already told you."_

_Daryl ducked behind one of the many arches in the corridor. The hallway they were in was spacious enough with the high windows on one side and doors on the other. Omid was on his knees with his hands behind his head surrounded by four heavily armed soldiers._

"_Bullshit! You wouldn't be throwin' grenades out the window like they were paper planes otherwise. Who were you tryin' to cover?"_

"_No one!"_

_The soldiers were Georgia born, Daryl could tell, and they weren't fucking around. He needed to get the Persian away from the othe—_

—_The flash bomb._

_Daryl took out the grenade. This would give him time to get Omid out of this predicament quickly._

"_These are David's guns." One of the soldiers growled as he searched Omid's gun bag. "You fuckin' stole 'em?!"_

_As the soldiers started to shove the Persian, Daryl shouted. "Close your eyes!"_

_He threw the flash bomb and shielded his eyes behind the wall. The loud bang that followed partly deafened him, but even through that he could hear the faint shouts of the soldiers. Without wasting another second, Daryl sprinted from his hiding place and grabbed Omid who was on the ground, rubbing the burning sensation from his eyes. It proved to be difficult to move the Persian as he resisted adamantly believing him to be one of the soldiers._

"_It's me dammit. Stop strugglin'!" Daryl harshly whispered as he grabbed the rucksack and hoisted it over his shoulders._

_Omid, despite the confusion, heard the hunter's voice and grabbed his arm. Both of them ran, but as soon as they got within a safe distance the bullets flew by. The Persian cursed as he covered his head and ran faster. Heavy boots echoed behind them as the soldiers gave pursuit._

_Daryl could hear the hiss of bullets as they missed him by inches. Turning a corner, the hunter stopped, gave Omid the gunbag and took out his own gun. Omid joined him, and clumsily shot where he could. One of Daryl's bullets hit a soldier and down he went, screaming._

"_Let's go!" Omid shouted._

_Daryl complied and both resumed running. They needed to get to the manhole. But as they descended the stairs to the lower level, they heard it. Cold sweat poured down their temples as the death song of the undead reached their ears._

_Between a rock and a hard place was the explanation best suited for their situation. Soldiers coming from one end while walkers from the other._

"_What now?" Omid asked in horror at their impending doom._

"We climbed back a story and went through one of the side doors, ended up in unfinished part of the buildin'." Daryl bit his thumb again as his shoulders sagged. "Hid there as long as we could. Heard the soldiers fight the walkers. Didn't take long for them to try an' escape 'em."

_Daryl and Omid were flat on their stomachs on the top of one of the scaffolds. They watched as a soldier covered in blood, came inside the room and frantically tried to close the door. When the door wouldn't cooperate he used his rifle to jam it underneath the handle. The man stepped back as he heard the cries of pain of his comrades as they were devoured by ravenous freaks._

_The moment the soldier got beneath their location, Daryl dropped from his place and onto the soldier. They struggled. Punches were thrown and they ended up struggling on the floor. Omid got down from the scaffold and took out his gun. The Persian was at a loss. He didn't know what he should do. If he fired the gun there was a chance he could hit Daryl, and if he hit the soldier it would end up the same—someone would die._

"_Do it! Shoot him!" Daryl bellowed as he grappled with the marine. The hunter was good as brawls, but he didn't know how to tackle someone like soldiers knew. The soldier locked him in a chokehold and squeezed._

_Dixon sputtered some words towards the Persian. The man shakily pointed his gun, unable to shoot. The soldier's head was too close to Daryl's and he couldn't reach his body since it was underneath the hunter's._

"_Khhchhh…shoot…" His vision was blurring at the edges. The oxygen needed to keep his brain functioning was being blocked making his head light._

_Omid whimpered as he shakily held the gun. He had a few seconds to choose. A few seconds before the man choked Daryl to death and then killed him._

_The decision was made. Omid aimed and closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger._

_The shot rang in the empty hall._

"When I heard that shot I thought it was over." Daryl smirked in displeasure. "Your boyfriend is a crap shooter, but he got lucky this time."

_The soldier's head fell back, blood pouring out of a hole from the center of his temple. Daryl shook off the now limp arms and rolled off the soldier, hacking and coughing his lungs out in a poor attempt to inhale some beloved oxygen. The gun slipped out of Omid's hand and he dropped on his behind from shock. Wide eyes were fixed on the corpse as his hands shook uncontrollably._

_Daryl got his feet and grabbed a hold of the other man. With surprising force, he lifted the catatonic man to his feet._

"_We need to get the hell outta here." He coughed as his breath came out in whizzes._

"Found another door. Went through it. No way we would head back to the stairs. Place was crawling with geeks." Daryl flicked off the tiny blood droplet from his thumb. He bit right through the skin again. "Had to go through several other rooms until we reached a fire exit. From there we reached the ground floor, but the way was blocked by walkers. There were too many of 'em to fight off. We had to wait for them to start clearin' out. And they did once gunshots were fired somewhere upstairs. Figured it must be other soldiers, good thing they were stupid enough to shout out their position. Killed the stragglers and ran for the sewer."

He looked down on himself at the crusted blackish blood on his clothes. Once he got to the farm, the first thing he was going to do was take a shower. And wash his clothes…or maybe burn them completely. Now that he thought about it, he probably had blood on his face as well from the soldier's head getting shot. He blindly rubbed at his cheek leaving a red imprint.

Christa was stunned. She stood there petrified at Daryl's retelling. Omid…killed someone? He shot a living being? _Him_? She looked towards the locked door and wished to God she could go in there and comfort her boyfriend.

"Don't know how many others were still alive there. Doubt there was only those."

"Was there any chance that they followed you?"

Daryl frowned but shook his head ultimately.

At least…he thought they didn't.

His eyes settled back on the door. "How bad?"

Christa shifted her feet nervously, knowing who he was asking about. "The fever messed with her head. She was hallucinating half the time and when she wasn't, she screamed herself hoarse. She was calling after someone named John…" Her dark eyes settled on the hunter calculatingly. "You two are not together, are you?"

Daryl scoffed derisively.

"Figures. You're too different. I'm guessing John is her actual husband?"

"How should I know?" The hunter frowned deeply. "We ain't friends, we just survive together." Although, he vaguely remembers her shouting out that name during their fight in the abandoned house, but he didn't put much thought to it at the time.

"Look, I don't know if your friend is going to make it. Iréne doesn't look positive and even I can see that there are about 50/50 chances."

"Shit." Daryl rose from the firetruck's stairs and started pacing agitatedly. "She can't die. I can't—" _go back without her. They'll blame me for this. For not stopping her from coming here._

"This is out of our hands." Christa shrugged helplessly. "Let's just pray that Iréne can still save her."

* * *

Daryl shot up to his feet the moment the door opened.

Both the French doctor and Omid stepped out, exhausted and bloodied. Christa rushed to her boyfriend and Omid almost collapsed in her arms, his feet barely keeping him aloft.

"She alive?" Daryl walked up to the doctor, but his eyes were on the Persian.

"Yeah." Omid sighed in fatigue. "Iréne got that piece of wood out and cleaned the wound. She says the biggest problem now is the fever. She gave your friend antibiotics and other pills, and she's trying to keep her body as cool as possible, but it's up to Samara now."

Iréne speaks shortly in French which Omid translates.

"If she makes it through the next 24 hours, she's in the clear, but if not…"

Daryl nodded in understanding. "Then there ain't nothin' we can do."

"Sorry, man." The man was sincere. "If we still had hospitals, maybe then…"

The hunter spat as he gripped the back of his neck in frustration. He had never been a patient man, didn't have it in his blood.

"There are also some fractured ribs and large bruising on her back, but Iréne says those will heal with time. Samara is going to be in a lot of pain once she wakes up, and possibly confused since she suffered a mild concussion." Omid leaned against the wall with Christa supporting one side. "All in all, she was lucky she didn't break bones or had internal bleeding. That _would_ have killed her."

The glower sent his way was chilling. "What's the difference? She's still with one foot in the grave."

A weak smile attempted to form on the Persian's lips, only for it to die out.

"At least she has a chance…"

* * *

Daryl was woken up by something tugging on his hand.

Reflexively, he reached for his hunting knife and he almost cut the hand that gripped him. He stopped at the last minute once he saw the form of the marshal turned towards him, her hand extended.

After the surgery, Samara had been moved by Daryl and Christa to a cot. The hunter had remained by the marshal's side throughout the night. Someone had to watch her, and he didn't think the Native would like it if someone else did the deed.

Reaching over, Daryl turned on the small camp lantern. The marshal was looking straight at him with a dopey smile on her face.

The relief that washed over the hunter felt like the world just jumped off his shoulders and let him breathe. She was alive. She made it through. Daryl let out the breath he didn't even know that he was holding.

"Where…were you?" Her voice came out broken and gravelly.

"After the supplies."

"I've been waiting for you…" The smile broadened. "John, I'm so happy to see you."

Daryl frowned. "The hell you talkin' about, woman? It's Daryl."

The Native's face fell into desperation and her grip tightened on him. "John, please don't leave again…Please."

It didn't take long for Daryl to connect Iréne's words to the marshal's current state. With his free hand he checked her brow—it was burning.

"Shit." As gently as he could, Daryl dislodged the slim hand and rose to his feet. He didn't even make one step before Samara took a hold of the material of his pants.

"John—"

"I ain't leavin', dammit!" He snapped, but calmed down once he saw the look of hurt cross over the woman's face. "Just gettin' some water."

She finally let go of him and the hunter moved quickly. Christa had given him a large bottle of relatively cold water which he used to change the compression on the marshal's forehead every hour or so. Returning to his seat, he promptly ignored the fact that Samara laced her fingers with his and placed a new soaked bandage on her feverish temple.

Pulling the covers off of her, he tried to get her core temperature to an acceptable level with whatever means he had at hand.

"You won't leave me, will you?"

It was strange seeing this side of the Native. She was clingy and emotional, loving even. Daryl knew it was the drugs and the fever rampaging through her system that was affecting her behavior, but it still made him uncomfortable, especially since he was the target of her change in character.

"…I won't."

What else could he do other than play along? He didn't want to break the Native's disillusioned bubble. Who knew how she would react.

His statement brought out a different smile, one not contaminated by drugs or fever. A real one. One that brought a spark to her eyes. Daryl had never experienced one like that and wondered if this was how loving couples gazed at one another.

_She looks better smilin'…_

Quickly, it gets too uncomfortable for him and his cheeks redden from embarrassment. His occupied hand jerked in an attempt to free itself which resulted in the marshal sinking her nails into his palm. Daryl struggled to keep his annoyance in check by biting his lip.

"I'm sorry for what I said before you left for New York." The marshal croaked in melancholy. She was desperate for him to understand. "I know it wasn't you fault. I was just so angry I took it out on you. Will you forgive me?"

Daryl breathed in deeply. He did not like this. He didn't want to be in this sort of situation.

"Yeah…It's alright."

The smile reappeared.

"You should go back to sleep."

She nodded and closed her eyes, a serene expression settling over her face. Even asleep, she didn't let go of his hand. Daryl had to slowly pry her fingers off of him.

_Definitely clingy…_

* * *

"_This is delicious."_

_Samara gorged on her husband's scrambled eggs coupled with maple syrupy pancakes and strawberries. Strangely, it felt like ages since she last tasted them although she knew it was only yesterday._

_John sat next to her at the small kitchen table with his own plate. "You always say that. I'm beginnin' to think you say those things to bribe me into makin' you more."_

"_Why do you think I married you?" Samara smirked cheekily. "I can't cook for shit. Somebody has to feed me."_

_John chuckled, his smile crooked. Gods, she missed that laugh._

_This is what she missed the most. This normality. The lazy, happy days before everything went sour between them. Samara didn't understand why she was thinking of all this in the past tense. Both of them were there at the moment._

_A knock disturbed the peace of the house._

"_Pretty early for visits." John stood up and headed for the door. Before disappearing in the hallway, he gave Samara a mock stern look. "Don't even think about eatin' off my plate."_

_The indignation on her face was Oscar worthy. "I'm shocked that you would think I would do that."_

"_Yeah, yeah…that is until I find half of it gone."_

_Samara grinned deviously._

_Samara never got to finish her breakfast as a horrible scream erupted from the front door. Taking out one of the larger knives from the wooden support she rushed to the door._

"_John!"_

_The Native stopped short at the scene before her._

_John was on the ground, blood pouring out of his open throat with a blonde woman standing over him, feasting on his flesh._

"_Get off him, you bitch!"_

_With all her might, Samara flung the woman off. The woman was dead—her flesh was an ashen grey, her eyes milky and teeth red with blood. Her once wavy blond hair was now limp and almost white._

—_There was something very familiar about her…_

_Taking the knife, Samara plunged it into the dead woman's temple and watched as she stopped moving altogether. Reaching her husband, she took off her T-shirt leaving her in a spaghetti strap top and with it she applied pressure on the wound._

"_Dammit, John! Don't you fucking die! Not again!"_

—Again?

_As the panic increased and the blood poured, Samara didn't hear the ambulance that parked outside her doorway. She just woke with two men dislodging her from her husband and taking control of the situation._

"_It's going to be alright, ma'am."_

_The speaker had a name tag on his jacket that read 'T-Dog'._

—Strange name for a paramedic…

_The other Paramedic was an older gentleman with a bucket hat. His tag said 'Dale'._

"_We'll take him from here." The southern twang on the older man was gentle and warm._

_They placed John on a stretcher and hurriedly loaded him in the ambulance. When Samara tried to step into the back of the ambulance, T-Dog stopped her._

"_You can't come."_

"_What? That's my husband—"_

_T-Dog shook his head with a grim face. "It ain't your time."_

_Closing the double doors in her face, the ambulance sped off._

"_Hey!"_

_Samara shouted in incredulity and started running. She ran as fast as she could after the car, but her speed wasn't a match to an automobile._

"_Stop, you assholes!" The Native bended over herself as she heaved. "Come back…"_

_The road was empty. The ambulance now long gone._

_A beat out family car stopped next to her._

"_Hey, you alright?"_

_A young Korean was behind the wheel. He wore a worn-out baseball cap and an anxious expression._

"_Help me!" Samara leaned against the car window. "These crazy paramedics kidnapped my husband!"_

"_Seriously?" His eyes widened and he fidgeted with the locks. "Get in."_

_Once inside, the car sped off with Samara directing it. The more they drove, the more the scenery changed. No longer where they in a suburban area or even a city. They were on a highway._

_Horror struck Samara as even the vegetation began to change. Everything around them died as they drove. The grass and leaves withered and fell, the trees blackened and branches sharpened ominously, and the skies turned to the color of ash._

—_Life fled from around her._

_The car stopped. So focused was Samara on what happened outside that she didn't notice the car slowing down gradually. When she turned to ask what the boy was doing, her back hit the car door in shock. The Korean was dead. He, like the vegetation, withered and died. Nothing but a skinny corpse was left behind._

_Samara fled the car and put as much distance between herself and the Korean. She didn't understand what was happening. Where was she? How did she get here? Why was everything dying?_

_The marshal walked what seemed like hours…days…moths…_

_She eventually saw someone, but as she approached she wished she hadn't. Two men in county police uniforms were facing each other from a few meters with one of them pointing a gun at the other. The other man was holding something bloodied in one arm and a gun in the other. Samara's eyes traveled down between the men, where something that looked like a rope connecting the bloodied thing to a woman that was sprawled on the concrete._

—_The woman was dead with her stomach cut open._

_And as Samara approached she realizes that the rope was actually an umbilical cord and the bloodied bundle was a baby. The marshal watched in horror as the man with the gun shouted at the other, but there was no noise. No matter how much Samara concentrated there was no sound between the two men as if someone muted them._

_The marshal stood to the side and watched as the man with the sheriff hat cocked his gun. The other man didn't react as he kept gazing at the bundle in his arms, a calm smile on his face. It was then that the man moved—he looked the sheriff straight in the eye with the same serene smile and raised his gun._

_Two shots._

_The marshal almost tripped over her feet as she backed away in horror. _The insane bastard!

_The deputy's body fell, blood spurting out of the smoking hole beneath his chin. His brain was splattered on the cold concrete, a white substance leaking out of the bullet's exit hole._

_That was the second shot. The first….._

"_No!"_

_The sheriff rushed to the body. Rolling him over, he pulled the baby from underneath his now still friend. Horrified and helpless, Samara watched as the sheriff let out a howl of pain and anguish that tore at the soul._

_The deputy had made his point clear—he created it so it was his right to take it._

_A river of red flowed away from the distraught man. Crimson veins grew like tree roots, entangling and leading away from the tragedy painting a beautifully grotesque picture._

_Cautious steps approached the quiet man. Samara looked over him with sorrowful eyes as tears cascaded down his cheeks._

_There was nothing either of them could do anymore. Life was fleeting, everything was decaying step by step. It was only a matter of time until it caught up to them._

"_Come on…"_

_The man raised his head and meekly nodded. Gently, he placed the bloodied bundle next to the dead woman. They should be together, if not in life then in death._

_She didn't understand why, but there was something familiar about the man. Yet she knew that she had never met him…_

_Taking a hold of his arm, Samara steadied the grieving man as his wobbly legs threatened to give out at any second. The marshal had to nudge him forcefully at first since he kept looking back at the woman and infant. He wasn't ready to part with them yet, but time was flying and they needed to leave._

"_Did you see an ambulance drive by?"_

_The man gave her a quizzical look. As Samara was on the verge of giving up, his dead eyes sparked with knowledge. "Yeah. One drove by a while ago."_

_A smile lit up the woman's face and her feet picked up the pace. At this point the man could either keep up with her or get left behind._

"_My boy…"_

_Samara's jog slowed._

"_My boy ran this way." The man looked around anxiously. "I told him to run when…" His throat clogged and fresh tears threatened to pour._

_His blue eyes shone pityingly. "Can you help me find him?"_

_Lips thinned in annoyance. "I have my own problems. Some paramedics kidnapped my husband. I have to get him back."_

"_Oh…" The man sighed dejectedly, but kept his gaze vigilante on his surroundings._

"_But…" Samara but her lip at her own insensitivity. That wasn't what she had wanted to say, it just came out. "If you help me then I'll help you. Deal?"_

_The man nodded with a weak smile._

_The road stretched forever. Didn't matter how much distance they walked, the scenery never changed. It was the same depressing one that destroyed your morale and kicked you repeatedly while you were still down._

_Samara broke into a run when she saw something up ahead. Her companion followed and they soon reached a stranded man trying to revive his motorcycle. There was a southern twang attached to the curses that slipped from his lips._

"_Hey!"_

_The man looked over. The scowl that marred his expression distorted his blue eyes making them appear arctic._

–_He was pissed._

"_The hell you want?"_

_Samara's brow twitched in aggravation, but she reigned in her scathing remarks. "Have you seen an ambulance go by?"_

"_And a boy?" The sheriff interjected hopefully. "About twelve years old with dark brown hair and blue eyes."_

_Samara could almost see the cogs turning in the southerner's head as his gaze traveled from one to the other. "Seen an ambulance. No kid, though."_

_The southerner looked over the road with a faraway look. "Been lookin' for a girl. Promised her mama I'd find her."_

"_Haven't seen any little girls."_

"_Maybe she crossed paths with my son." The sheriff thought aloud. "You should come with us. We can search faster this way."_

_The stranger nodded after a few moments. He didn't seem that keen with the idea, but it would go faster if all three of them kept their eyes open. The man abandoned his chopper and all three of them set on foot. It was then that Samara noticed the black crossbow at the man's back._

_For some reason, she knew that the crossbow wasn't just for show._

"_You're a hunter, right?"_

_The man's blank stare was all that greeted her._

_Silence reigned over their little group. All three of them lost something, all desperately trying to get it back. If Samara had been a believer, she would have said that fate had brought them together._

_The further they walked, the more tired she became. She could feel the weights dragging her feet behind. At one point, the concrete reminded her of sinking through sand._

Rumble.

_The three of them stopped._

"_What was that?"_

"_I think…the ground just shook." _

_Again the rumble began. Samara had to wave her arms around for balance so she wouldn't fall flat on her ass._

"_Shit, it's an earthquake." The hunter spat as he planted his feet firmly on the ground._

_Suddenly, the earthquake stopped. The three of them looked at each other in confusion and for a second they actually thought that they were in the clear._

_But the moment the road split in half was when hell broke loose._

_Samara let out a scream as chunks of concrete flew everywhere as if spit out of a live volcano. She ducked and made herself as small as possible to avoid the debris. She could hear the others cursing and yelling but didn't peek over to see if they were alright—she was more concerned with her life._

_Once it ended, the marshal picked herself up. The other were scratched and bruised, but otherwise alright._

"_Oh god…"_

_Samara followed the sheriff's horrified gaze and what she saw shook her to the core. The road had a giant hole in the middle with the edges torn over as if it had exploded from within. But the hole was not the problem—the fact that there was a hand gripping the edge was what held her breath._

_The hand was ash-grey and rotted with bones and muscles exposed. And it was moving._

_The three took a step back when the upper half appeared over the edge._

—_It was a corpse._

_A moving, rotting dead body. The thing was groaning and snarling and watching them with an insatiable need. Its eyes were bleeding crimson and its teeth were yellowed and putrefied. There was fresh blood dripping down its mouth._

"_When there's no more room in Hell, the dead walk the earth."_

_She turned towards the hunter. His words…Gods. What. The. Fuck._

_Samara's whole body shook. _That can't be real…Hell doesn't exist.

_A screech deafened them as more and more 'demons' appeared out of the hole. It sounded like the screams of the damned, of banshees and evil things._

_If Hell was just a story, these things were doing a pretty good impersonation._

"_Run!"_

_The sheriff had the right idea. The trio ran for their lives._

_The monsters were right behind them, running like…well, like bats out of hell._

–Weren't they supposed to be slow?

_The confusion of that stray thought was easily ignored in favor of survival._

_Run._

_Run. Run. Run._

_The earth started shaking again and split right before their eyes. The hunter and Samara had jumped the fissure right on time, their quick reflexes propelling them. But the sheriff…_

_The sheriff was trapped. The crack had become too wide for him to attempt it anymore. His blue eyes were wide and horrified with layers of fear almost choking him._

_Samara watched helplessly as the hoard rapidly approached the man. "Jump!"_

_The man looked at the hole and then at her and his face settled to stone—determination with a tinge of hope._

_He took a few steps back and caught his breath in his throat. He ran._

_Samara's small smile slipped right off her face as the sheriff jumped. With just a few centimeters from touching the others side, rancid hands shot out of the hole and grabbed him by the legs. Samara ran and caught his hand just moments from being pulled into the depths._

"_Hold on!"_

_No matter how much she struggled to keep him afloat the hands pulling him down were too strong. The moment she heard an awful tearing sound was when she saw blood leak from his mouth._

–_They were splitting him in half._

_Samara didn't let go. If she did, she would lose him. The man made a horrible gurgling sound and crimson liquid splattered on her face. The agonizing scream that erupted from his throat almost brought tears to her eyes. She couldn't hold onto him anymore, the force in which the monsters where pulling was dragging her in also._

_Her eyes conveyed to the dying man what she couldn't in words._

I'm sorry.

_She let go._

_Samara didn't even have the time to see the betrayal in his blue eyes or him getting engulfed by the darkness as callous hands wrapped around her body and pulled. The hunter dragged her to her feet and caught hold of her hand._

"_We gotta go!"_

"_But…"_

"_Ain't nothin' we can do about him!"_

_They ran._

_The hoard behind them had managed to jump the hole with inhuman reflexes and more and more crawled out of the newer one._

_Hand in hand they ran for their lives. Forgotten were the reasons they were out here, now only fearing for their lives._

_It was then she heard it—the cry of the owl._

_Owls upon owls were lined up in the trees on either side of the road. They were all pointing their beady golden eyes at them, watching them dance. Dance to the strings of fate._

_They cried in unison. They were laughing at them, at their feeble attempts to live._

_It was their time. Everything was dying around them and now Death has caught up them. There are no exceptions when it comes to the Owl._

_The hunter stopped. The hoard was now closing in on them from all sides. They were trapped._

_The man pushed the Native behind him and began shooting with his crossbow, but it wasn't enough. There were too few arrows for so many monsters. Samara's forehead was glued to the man's back as she gripped his shirt with white knuckles. She tried to mold into him, to disappear from what was about to happen._

_He stopped firing and turned to her. As clear as day was the hopelessness in his eyes. He also knew that this was the end for them._

"_Wake up."_

_Samara scrunched her nose in confusion. Wha—?_

_The last arrow was pointed between her eyes._

_Death's hands were seconds away from taking a hold of them._

_The shock left her unable for even a wisp of a word._

"_It ain't your time. Wake up!"_

_He pulled the trigger and blackness reigned._

* * *

Samara woke up with a gasp.

Her breaths came out strangled and heavy. She couldn't stop her body from shaking. Cold sweat stuck her clothes to her body. She was drenched—her hair plastered to her scalp and neck. She could feel the dampness in the pillow underneath her head.

_Where am I? How did I get here? Where's John?_

Samara grimaced. Her head hurt, but the moment she tried to move her body, a stinging pain shot throughout her spine right to her brain. Her mouth opened in a silent scream—her back was on fire.

_Oh Gods…_

It took several minutes for the pain to subside to something bearable and Samara let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding.

The light snore alerted her of another presence in the room. Looking over, she spotted Dixon sleeping in a chair, his crossbow on his lap, ready for use.

Again, confusion wrapped her mind. Why was Dixon here?

The room seemed familiar to the Native and when she spotted the bloodied table, she remembered what happened. She fell because of that soldier and ended up at a firehouse via a man named Omid. She had been injured during the fall and she remembered screaming. An infection set in and screwed up with her mind. And then…nothing.

It was close to dawn judging from the faded reddish-orange light that slithered through the boarded up windows. How long had she been out?

Weakly, Samara reached for the sleeping hunter. Her fingers skimmed over his lax hand hanging over the armrest. When he only snorted and went back to his dreams, Samara poised her fingers into claws and scratched.

Daryl woke up with a start and grabbed his crossbow. When the only danger in the room was presented as a grouchy marshal, Daryl let go of his weapon.

"How you feelin'?"

"Whole body hurts." Samar licked her dry lips. "And my head's pounding."

Daryl snorted as he placed his palm on her forehead. "You've been havin' a fever since yesterday. Ain't nothin' new."

She was warm now, not scalding hot. It was a good sign.

"A day?"

The hunter nodded. "It hit you hard since you rarely eat and smoke cigarettes like they were candy. Plus you had a weak immune system."

"Well, shit." Samara let her head fall back on the pillow before giving him a pointed look. "I'm not quitting cigarettes."

He snorted again and returned to his relaxed position in the chair. "Doc said that you're gonna be in pain for a few weeks because of the infection and the fall. She got the piece of wood out of you in time. Another few hours and you'd be dead. Some of your ribs got fractured and you had a concussion. Your back's all screwed up now so we can't leave yet."

Samara closed her eyes in resignation. Again, she was bedridden. She swore, if she hurt her back one more time she was going to break it and have to resort to a wheelchair.

An amused scoff escaped her. She could just picture herself rolling down the road, shotgun in hand and aviators over her eyes. _Walkers won't stand a chance…_

Her giddy laugh was cut shortly as she realized the strange turn her thoughts took.

"Did that doctor give me sedatives?" She cautiously asked the hunter.

The look on Daryl face told her what he thought of her out-of-place behavior. "…Morphine."

_Figures_. She always thought of the craziest things when she was under heavy opioids.

"Tomorrow, I'm gonna go after the car and we're leavin'. Doc order's or not."

"Already?"

Another creased appeared on his forehead. "We've stayed too long."

Samara agreed. Two days, three with tomorrow. The others were probably frothing at the mouth.

"Gonna get that doctor. Tell her you woke up." Daryl rose from the chair with the intent to leave, but Samara's next words gave him pause.

"I had a strange dream." Her indiscernible eyes were fixed on him. "You were in it…You shot me."

Daryl doesn't know how to respond to that, so he continues on his way. She doesn't see the way his brow creases further or the uncertainty in his blues.

As Samara watched him leave the room, the corner of her eyes caught something that made her heart jump.

—There was a half carton of cigarettes lying on a cabinet.

"Fuck…"

There it was. The reason they were in this situation.

Even after everything, Dixon still got her her damn cigarettes. _Why?_

Samara closed her eyes tightly and clenched her teeth.

"Stupid…stupid…stupid!"

Her hand caught hold of a chunk of her hair and pulled. She needed the pain right now, to realize the danger her selfishness got them into. They could have died and no one would have known. The others would have given up after a while and thought of the worst. They would have mourned the hunter. Her, not so much. That was the only thing that she was actually sorry for—if Dixon had died the others would have been distraught. He was a big part of the group, even if they didn't realize it yet. And the thought that she would have been the cause made her stomach churn. Those people were terrible, but at least they had each other.

Why did she keep doing such idiotic antics? She was supposed to be above this. Logical and calculating. The logic in her driving to a ghost town 30 kilometers away for cigarettes and alone time was foolish and suicidal. She wasn't like this before…before the group. Every risk she took she weighted the pros and cons, and when it proved too risky she left it alone. But now, even if she went for a walk, she knew someone would be around in case of danger—she had a safety net.

That's why she didn't take enough precautions when she entered the town. Because Daryl was there and if anything happened, he would watch her back.

That had to change, because if it didn't, it will kill her. Her back was proof of that.

* * *

**Foot Note:** Sorry for not writing about the NASCAR track. I'm not good at action and it would have taken too long. I want to keep it as close to Samara as I can.

Also, if you're wondering, owls are a symbol of death in Native-American religion. It seemed fitting.

Reviews are always welcome.


	18. Hope You Enjoyed Your Stay in Hampton

_**Note:**_ Yey, this is the end of the Hampton arc. Next chapter is back at the farm and with the storyline. I have no idea when that will be updated, but I'll try to make it as fast as I can.

Enjoy!

* * *

Samara shut her eyes tightly, before blinking rapidly to rid herself of the colorful spots. The French woman had just molested her eyeballs with a small pocket flashlight.

"So? What's the verdict?" The marshal asked as she rubbed her eyes.

Omid graciously translated for everyone. Christa and Daryl were also in the room—Christa near her boyfriend and Daryl on the chair by the bed.

"She says that you're doing fine. You still have a bit of fever and you have to be on painkillers regularly, at least for a week. Then you can gradually take less."

After Samara woke up from her nightmare, Iréne had come down from her room and given her a full inspection.

"You can't walk right now, so bed rest for at least another two days."

Daryl shook his head. "Can't wait that long."

"Look, man. I know you want to leave, but you're gonna put Samara at risk if she moves now."

"She could get worse." Christa said as she also was against the hunter's plan. "Her stitches could reopen and she would bleed out."

Daryl spat as he crossed his arms. He really wanted to leave this place and go…_home_.

"Just wait a few days and then you can be on your way. We're not that bad." Omid smiled lightly. "It's gonna be fun. I found a scrabble game in one of the rooms. What do you say, me and Christa versus you and Sam?"

The relative calm mood Samara was in spiraled down to deep annoyance that bordered on seething anger.

"Don't call me _Sam_, half-pint!"

Omid's brows almost disappeared into his hairline from the surprise verbal assault. "Okay…Hit a sore spot. Sorry."

Even Daryl gave her a strange look, but he filed this abrupt reaction. Something about shortening her name set her off like a firecracker. He saw it as useful for when he wanted to piss her off.

Iréne patted Samara's cheek for attention and looked her dead in the eye. Whatever she was asking seemed serious. The marshal looked to Omid for clarification.

"Do you remember anything after Daryl and I left?"

Samara shook her head. "Just bits and pieces. I saw things that I know were hallucinations. Dreams that were mostly nightmares."

"Do you remember screaming or lashing out?" Christa asked as she crossed her arms.

"No."

"Nothin'?" This time the hunter asked.

"_No_."

Daryl breathed in relief. She didn't remember confusing him with her dead husband. Didn't remember holding his hand or smiling.

_Good._ It would have made things between them even more awkward and strained.

"Well, you did all those things. Struck Iréne across the face when she tried to help you." The dark woman leaned against the wall, the memory offering a bitter taste. "And even punched me in the chest. Did you practice boxing before the virus hit?"

"I hit the punching bag every now and then." Samara eyed the faint red blemish on the doctor's cheek.

"Well, we felt it." She gently massaged her tender clavicle. Underneath the shirt was a large purple and yellow bruise that stung every time she touched it.

Soon after, Omid and Christa left with Iréne, leaving Samara alone with Daryl. The French doctor had done her job, she informed her patient of her current state and as such, returned to her husband.

The minutes stretched on as did the silence.

Samara eyed the hunter's attire with a skeptical eye. She had been meaning to ask…

"Did you suddenly turn into a grandpa while I was out?"

Daryl leaned into his chair as he massaged his temple. He's had the time to change clothes with some of Otto's, since Omid was a few sizes too small for him. He didn't feel comfortable in the older man's clothes. He felt like someone's father in a faded blue stripped button down shirt assorted with maroon baggy pants.

He didn't offer any answers except for a glare.

"How hard was it to get the supplies?" She change the subject since Dixon refused to rise to her snark.

"Ran into walkers and soldiers."

Samara frowned, more worried about the living. "They follow you?"

Daryl shook his head.

"Got some guns and grenades."

A smirk spread her lips. "Nice."

Again the silence reigned over.

Samara frowned as her thoughts ate at her. The cigarettes hadn't left her mind since she saw them and she just had to pick the man's brain apart to understand his reasons.

"Dixon…I didn't thank you, did I?"

Daryl shrugged. He didn't expect it.

"Thank you…for everything." In this moment, she let the walls around her crumble. She wanted him to know that she was genuine and not faking it. "I would be dead without you."

This vulnerability…it reminded Daryl of last night. He _hated_ it. He didn't want to feel _uncomfortable_ around her. He much rather preferred the annoyance and aggravation. Because then he didn't have to know that something shifted in his view of her. And this wasn't recent. It's been happening for a while.

"You didn't have to bring me cigarettes."

The pointed look told otherwise. "Either that or I watch you try an' find a different town."

"I think I had enough of scavenging for a while."

"…Why?"

Daryl sighed. He knew she wouldn't let it go, not until she got an answer. She was worse than a pitbull with a bone.

"Dammit, Indian." He glared at her. "Why the hell do you have to analyze everythin' I do?"

"Because you don't do anything without a good reason." She hammered him with words and questions. "What reason could you possibly have in bringing me _these_? You're definitely not a good Samaritan."

He ran his fingers over his hair in aggravation. He didn't understand this need of hers to know his reasons. Even back at the highway she tried to ask him about Sofia. He wasn't a bleeding heart. He didn't bare his soul to others. He rarely even talked to Merle, why would he tell her?

"What answer do you want, huh? What do you want me to tell you that would get you off my back?" Blue eyes settled on her questioningly. "What're you lookin' for?"

"I…" Samara paused. What _was_ she looking for? An emotion? Something other than two people surviving together? A _friend_?

"I don't know." She really didn't. There was this overwhelming need to know, but the reason was lost to her. The only explanation she could conjure was that she wanted to extend the same olive branch as she did Grimes. Now that the sheriff was on her shit list, she needed someone else to replace him.

"Look, I'm tired. I think I'll go back to sleep."

As the doctor ordered, she took the Oxycodone and settled in more comfortably. Daryl rose from the chair and left, not needing any other hint.

Outside the room, he settled back on the steps of the fire truck. Fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of the back of his pants, he lit one up and enjoyed the nicotine flowing through his lungs. At that time, he didn't think too much on it. He remembers seeing the cigarette carton among the makeshift hospital beds and he just took advantage of the opportunity. It was too good to be true. Out of all the places where they could find the elusive nicotine sticks it had to be in the last place they ever wanted to look.

Daryl scoffed at the irony of it.

Besides, the woman didn't need to know that the carton had been full and he helped himself to some. It was only fair. He was the one risking his life for her; he might as well reap some benefits.

Tomorrow. No matter what, they had to leave. The Native could just chug a few more pills and sleep it off until they got to the farm. After everything that happened, he wasn't sure how safe it was to linger.

* * *

Samara was off into her own little world.

That dream she had screwed her up good. In it, she didn't understand what was going on or who the people were in it, but awake she did. Andrea, Dale, T-Dog, Glenn, Lori, Shane, Rick and Daryl. And, of course, the walkers.

Was it a warning that her clock was counting down? Or was it caused by her recent brush with death?

_And that part with the baby…_

Samara grimaced. Why the hell did her mind conjure such a fucked up fever dream was beyond her.

She understood the symbolism in her dream. That death could happen at any moment, that letting go of the past is the only way to move forward cleanly and that sticking together was the only way to get through this apocalyp—

A foreign noise startled her out of her reveries.

She could hear thumps and feminine yells coming from upstairs. Soon after, multiple sets of footsteps approached the location of the yells and panicked voices exploded.

_What the hell was going on?_

Daryl was gone. She was alone in the room.

With great effort, she lifted her upper half, mindful of her tender back. Even with drugs in her veins, she still felt the sparks of pain shoot across her spine like small volts of electricity. Samara really didn't want to know how it felt without the painkillers.

Getting to her feet proved to be the most difficult since her legs had numbed out from disuse and the shock of the fall. Samara bit her lip as she used all her strength in her arms to lift herself off the low cot. Her legs shook from the strain and a small whine escaped her lips. It _hurt_.

On her feet, she let out a breath of relief. Picking up the bottle of Oxys from the nightstand and strapping her gun holsters to her body, she slowly moved her legs, one step at a time. Samara didn't even think about straightening her hunched position. If she did, she'd probably howl in pain.

By the time she reached the stairs, she was already panting. Samara could already tell that the trek up was going to be exhausting and painful.

Again, shouts were heard, only this time they were more panicked. The French woman was downright screeching in horror and despair.

Samara hurried her climb.

By the time she reached the top, sweat was pouring down her face. Her breaths were audible and her chest heaved. With shaky fingers she opened the pill bottle and dropped a white tablet into her greedy mouth. She grinded it into fine grain then swallowed it knowing that this way it would hit her faster.

And hit her it did. As the pain became a distant memory, the consequences also erupted. Her mind became clouded, her vision distorted. Keeping her hands against the wall, she used it to support herself and walk in a straight line.

Reaching the open door, she peeked inside.

The room was the firemen's dorm. There was Iréne draped over an older gentleman's still body, the force of her sobs and wails rocking her shoulders. Omid and Christa were seated on the bed opposite the grieving doctor, with the dark woman crying silent tears in her boyfriend's arms. Dixon was a distance away from the others, silent and observing.

"What the fuck is going on?"

All but the doctor turned towards the new addition to the room.

"How the hell did you get up here?" Daryl frowned as he eyed her state. "You ain't supposed to be out of bed."

"Otto…He's dead." Omid was the one that answered as he wiped the unshed tears from his eyes.

Samara racked her brains. "Who?"

"Iréne's husband, Otto. He had another stroke. He…he didn't make it."

The marshal paused as the cogs in her brain turned. _Doesn't that mean…_

"Wait…he's dead?"

Christa shot her a teary glare. "What do you think?"

With speed nobody in the room expected, let alone the injured party, Samara upholstered one of her guns and aimed it directly at Otto's body.

"What are you doing?!"

Indignant and shocked, Omid was the first to jump to his feet with Christa following. Irene started yelling as she covered Otto's body with her own, protecting him from the marshal's violence.

"Are you insane?!" Christa bellowed, wide eyed and angry.

Daryl had gone completely still once the marshal had grabbed her gun. Right now, she was very dangerous. With drugs coursing through her system and fever still raging around her body, he had to approach as if a cornered animal.

Taking a cautious step, Daryl approached the semi-lucid marshal. "Samara…"

"Get the doc off him, I need a clean shot to his head."

"He wasn't bit, I already told you!" Christa yelled.

Samara scoffed, knowing better.

"Come on, Samara. Put the gun down." Omid put up his hands in a persuasive manner. "No one here is a threat."

"As far as you kno—"

Her mistake was taking her eyes off Dixon in favor of Omid. The hunter took advantage of this and jumped the woman, catching her wrist in a vice grip. Samara hissed as Daryl applied enough pressure to make her fingers loosen over the gun and give the hunter the time needed to relieve her of the weapon.

Having none of it, Samara poised her fingers into claws and scratched.

"Fuck!" Daryl palmed his cheek as four red marks inflated his skin.

The hunter never had the time to organize his thoughts as Samara jumped him and began struggling for control of the gun. They both pushed and pulled, each vying for control. While Daryl could easily take down the marshal, he feared further worsening her injuries.

But the moment she decided to sink her teeth into his arm was when all gloves went off. Wrapping his fingers tightly around her wrist, he twisted her around so her back hit his chest and then caught the other hand. With both appendages restrained, he manipulated them in a straight-jacket fashion, effectively leaving her arms useless.

Samara breathed heavily as exhaustion overtook her body.

"You done?" Daryl shook her as his nostrils flared in anger. "Huh?"

She could feel her eyes bobbing around in her sockets from Dixon's force. She was more or less done with fighting, the injuries draining her of strength.

"The hell are you doin'?" Daryl whispers harshly.

"You need to shoot him in the head, Dixon."

"Why?"

Exhaustion gave way to impatience as she eyed him angrily. "Shoot. Him."

"Not until you explain why."

"Just trust me." Her voice pleaded. The memory of the barn shootout where Dixon held her in a similar fashion flashed before her eyes. The part where he wouldn't let her go was more prominent—If he didn't then, he won't now.

As Daryl struggled with his decisions, nobody noticed that Otto's eyes opened. As everyone kept their gaze on the two people fighting, Otto slowly moved his milky white gaze towards the person closest to him—Iréne. The French woman noticed the subtle movements next to her and in her hysterical state thought that she had mistaken his death.

A happy smile widened her lips, but no noise ever managed to pass through them as Otto rushed her with his maw wide open and sunk his teeth into her throat.

"Shit!" Daryl was the first to see the grotesque sight as he and Samara were facing them. He immediately let go of the marshal and approached with his gun ready.

Omid and Christa both rushed to Iréne's side and tried to pry Otto off the woman. Omid pulled Otto by the shoulders and head as Christa tried to pull Iréne. The only thing they accomplished was make Otto latch more tightly onto her and for the French doctor's flesh to rip further.

Samara watched with detachment as Iréne was torn apart and Omid and Christa flailed around like headless chicken. Daryl tried to get a shot at the walker, but the others kept blocking his way.

"Shit!" Daryl spat as he approached and pulled Christa off Iréne. "Get the hell out of the way, camel jockey!"

Once he saw the gun, Omid almost jumped in his haste to put as much distance between himself and Otto. And he did it just in time because Daryl pulled the trigger, splattering Otto's brain all over the bed.

"Oh…my…God." Christa covered her mouth in shock. She just couldn't understand what happened. The shit just hit the fan over and over again.

"Oh, God. I think I have some Otto on me." Omid choked as bile rose to his mouth. Indeed there was blood and brain matter on his pants.

The insensitive giggle that burst through the cloud of anxiety and despair was far from welcome. "The French never did know how to fight."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Christa stared wide-eyed and disgusted at the marshal. She was trying to stem Iréne's blood flow with her own shirt, but the wound was too severe.

As Omid gingerly scraped off the gunk, he suddenly realized something and looked bewildered at Daryl. "Did you call me a 'camel jockey'?"

Ignoring the Persian, Daryl rushed to the marshal and gripped her arms with near brutality. Her giddy laughter stopped as the hunter shook her so hard her head bobbed from one side to the other.

"What was that?" Daryl snapped. "How did he turn? He wasn't bit."

The shit-eating grin that spread over her lips only managed to infuriate the man further. Before he could do something he would regret later, a glint in her eye caught his attention. Looking closer, he could see that her pupils were dilated to an awful extent and that a manic twinkle was present in those olive greens.

Dilated pupils. Personality change. Dopey smile. _Giggling_.

–He knew these symptoms. Experienced them on his own skin.

"Are you high right now?"

Samara widened her eyes almost comically and nodded her head with that god-awful grin still in place. "Pretty much."

Before the veins in his temple burst from anger, a foreign voice captivated their attention.

"For the people residin' in this firehouse, my name is Major Seth Harris!" A gruff southern voice called out. There was no mistaking the subtle commanding vibe to his words. "How about you come out so we can talk? There's seems to have been a misunderstandin'."

Not one second after that question ended, did Samara and Daryl hit the floor. The hunter and marshal silently crouch-walked to the window and settled against the wall. Daryl was the first to slide up and peek over the side at what awaited them outside.

"Shit." The hunter spat as he spotted a fully geared soldier outside the firehouse.

"It's them, isn't it?" Omid freaked out from the floor. "The soldiers from the NASCAR track."

Christa glared accusingly at him. "I thought you said nobody followed you!"

Her boyfriend merely shrugged, feeling at a loss.

As Samara mirrored Daryl's actions, she internally cursed. Just one out in the open meant others were hiding and waiting for their leader's command to jump out and decimate them. Samara had no intention of stepping one foot outside of the firehouse. This was a goddamn ambush.

"How many do you think are hidin' out there?"

"I don't know." She shook her head as a new wave of giddiness threatened to overwhelm her. "Could be two, could be six, could be twenty." The problem was washing them out without putting themselves in danger. Either that or they—

"We need to run."

Daryl was unsure as he bit his thumb. "Don't know if we can. Maybe they got us surrounded. Moment we take one foot outside the place, they shoot us."

"That, and we can't move Iréne." Christa said a she tried to keep the doctor calm. She was trashing around because of the pain, making her situation and Christa's intervention harder.

"Fuck her. She's dead." Samara not so gracefully put it.

Christa whipped around with Hell's fire in her dark eyes. "She isn't, you bastard! She's still breathing!"

Samara snorted sarcastically and waved her off. The French woman was dead in her book.

"What are we going to do, man?" Omid asked Daryl as he crawled over to his side.

Before Daryl could answer, the Major outside spoke again. "Listen, I ain't here to hurt or kill y'all, as long as you don't try the same. I just wanna talk. I don't have a weapon on me, so I expect you do the same."

Daryl raked his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"I'm headin' out."

Samara eyed him blankly. "You do realize this could be a trap?"

"Yeah, but what choice we got right now? That guy ain't here by himself, I know that." Daryl placed his crossbow on one of the beds, but left the knife in his boot and a handgun at the back of his pants. "Gonna see what he wants."

"He could shoot you the second he sees you."

"Nah, he's too calm. Think he's legit." Since he was young, Daryl could always tell which people could be trusted and which couldn't, and the man outside was someone that stuck to his word.

"I'll come with you." Omid rose to his feet only for steel-like fingers to stop him by the pant leg.

"Hell. No."

Omid fell back to his knees and eased Christa's hand off his pants, his thumbs soothing over her skin. "If that guy out there wants to know what happened, then I want him to know it wasn't our fault." A small smile passed his lips. "And I don't think Daryl is much of a talker. No offense, man."

Daryl shrugged. It was true.

"I'm coming too then." Christa intertwined her fingers with his.

"No, babe. You're not." The Persian kissed her temple gently. "Someone needs to stay with Iréne. Keep her from bleeding out."

"_She_ can do it."

Omid glanced uncertainly at the Native in question. "Uh…I'd be more assured if you did."

"For fuck sake, go!" Samara waved them off as she crawled over to Iréne. "I'll watch over the doctor. I can't do much in my state anyways."

"But—"

She glared at Omid. "You need backup. Someone to watch over you with a gun."

"Fine! Take a rifle and let's go." Daryl's patience finally snapped as he handed Christa a handgun. He then turned towards the marshal with sternness. "Stay here, and don't try anythin' stupid."

Samara gave him the finger.

As the trio left, the marshal observed the doctor's situation. She was going to die, plain and simple.

_Gods, the smell…_

Samara gagged as the stench of copper and raw meat hit her. You'd think she'd get used to the smell about now.

The marshal wondered if she'll see the hunter again or if he'll die out there, shot by a dozen Georgia Marine boys.

"It's too bad you got bit." Samara mused as she pressed the bloodied cloth to Iréne's neck. She had gone into shock a few minutes ago and stopped moving except for a few twitches here and there. "You would have been useful back at the farm, especially for Lori. She's gonna need a doctor soon and Hershel…well, no offense to the old man, but delivering a baby is much different than sticking your hand up a cow's ass."

The doctor simply gaped her mouth like a fish as her eyes rolled into her head.

"You're not much of a talker, are you, Frenchie? Oh well." Samara sighed as she half-heartedly applied pressure.

* * *

Daryl and Omid stepped out into the blazing sun as Christa remained behind the garage walls, gun ready.

The Major was an elder man in his 50's with pepper-grey hair and a large moustache. His sharp green yes followed their movements with quiet precision.

"Hello, there. Might I ask your names?" His voice was just as his appearance, gruff but calm.

"My name is Omid, and this is Daryl."

"Pleasure. You two stirred quite a commotion at my camp."

"That was your people's fault, not ours." Daryl spat as his eyes searched for hidden threats.

The man didn't even blink at the accusation. "Do explain. As I understood, one of you has been chukin' grenades down the track, rilin' up the infected."

"We had to do it. We had to get to the medical tents." Omid intervened.

Green eyes moved to the firehouse. "You got sick inside?"

Omid nodded. "Look Major, it was an emergency and we didn't know anyone was still alive at the track."

Something dark passed over the man's eyes, too quickly for them to pinpoint it. "No, you didn't. But because of that, I lost a lot of good men. So we got ourselves a problem now."

* * *

Samara almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of gunfire.

It sounded like the 4th of July outside.

_I guess the talk didn't go so well._

Dozens of pops and intelligible shouts reverberated against the walls. Samara's heart beat against her chest violently as she was excluded from the events below. She didn't know who was dead, who was not, who's wining and who's losing.

_If Daryl and the others are killed, well…_

Cocking her silent gun, the marshal was more than ready to fight back from her meager position. She'll shoot as many bastards as she can and then use the last bullet on herself. That is, if they didn't kill her first.

It was amazing how clear her thoughts were on this matter. There was no doubt and no fear to it. She was actually very calm.

_These are some grade A drugs_.

Suddenly, the firecrackers stopped and something metallic hit concrete. Samara stilled and strained her ears to hear the happenings of outside. _Who won? Us or them? Or did they kill each other?_

To her relief, she heard Omid and Daryl shout out. Their voices seemed to have come from somewhere inside.

_Huh. They survived, after all._

They seemed to be talking with the ones outside as answers were shouted back. Samara tried to focus to hear their words, but a gurgle distracted her from her focus. Iréne seemed to be coming back to consciousness. The marshal was surprised that she was still had enough will to live. Looking at her, at her deformity, she wondered when to kill her. Now or after the last breath left her body?

As Samara contemplated Iréne's fate, she heard shouting from inside again, only this time, the voices were foreign to her ears. Somebody else was in the building.

"Put your weapons down! Now!" A nasal Georgia accent shouted. "Get down on your knees! Do it!"

_Oh shit…we have company._

The marshal immediately sprang to her feet, fought off the dizziness that came from rising up so fast and went out the door, gun in hand. Sliding along the wall she reached the corner and peeked down the stairs. There, near the garage doors were Daryl, Omid and Christa pointing their weapons at the three Marines pointing their own rifles.

_They probably entered the building through some back door or window._

She grimaced. This is why the man called them out. So they could be distracted while some of his soldiers entered the building and subdue them without much violence.

Samara tried to concoct a plan in her muddled up brain. She could just shoot them—but considering the fact that her vision distorted and warped at times, she didn't think she could hit a target one meter away from her.

_So…what to do?_

The metaphorical bulb lit up. It was crazy and stupid and _dangerous_, but to her drugged up mind it was _brilliant_.

She just needed Iréne right now.

* * *

It took her a few minutes, but now Samara was dragging the body of the French doctor across the hall towards the stairs. There was a thin trace of blood trailing behind them, courtesy of the bullet hole in the blonde's _heart_.

She was going to die anyway. Samara just made it a swift death instead of letting her suffer through the injuries.

And now, deceased, she would serve a purpose. One to save the others.

Reaching the corner, she saw that Daryl and the couple were on their knees, hands behind their head. Two of the Marines were near the trio while one hung back, right beneath the open corridor connecting the other half of the building.

_Good._

_This would make it easier._

Samara waited. She needed Iréne to start moving again otherwise this would never work.

One of the soldiers closest to the trio hit Daryl with the butt of his rifle after the hunter snapped something at him.

The marshal gritted her teeth in frustration.

_Twitch. _

A finger moved.

_Oh…Here we go._

The doctor's whole body started to shudder sporadically. Undead Iréne was close to waking up.

Samara moved the body as silently as possible over to the corridor. She needed to be exactly above the soldier for her plan to work. The marshal took a better grip of Iréne from under her shoulders and put her in a Nelson grip, and proceeded to quietly drag the flailing corpse.

The moment Samara was positioned right above the soldier was when Iréne's milky eyes opened.

The soldiers were too preoccupied with the others to notice the two of them, but Daryl and the others did. They watched in horror as what used to be Iréne struggled to break free of the marshal's grip and bite her. And then, Samara did the unthinkable.

—She pushed Iréne over the balustrade.

And the undead doctor landed right atop the soldier.

He screamed in surprise and terror as he realized what was on him and currently biting a part of his arm. His partners watched in shock as an undead seemingly fell from the roof onto their friend. One of the soldiers rushed to the wounded man to try and get the walker off him while the other pointed his gun at Samara in blind anger.

Daryl took the chance and tackled the distracted soldier to the floor, saving Samara from a barrage of bullets. Omid joined in and helped restrain the soldier while Daryl relieved him of his weapons. The hunter passed a gun to Christa and the woman wasted no time in pointing it at the other soldiers.

Samara watched from above as Daryl took back his knife and gun and instructed Omid to watch the soldier. Her eyes moved along with Daryl as he approached the soldiers underneath her. The man's efforts of getting the walker of his friend only managed to get the thing's attention. In a panic, the man pulled the trigger and shot the walker's head off. Some of the bullets passed through the doctor and ended up in the bitten soldier.

Daryl did not wait for any explanation or excuses and shot all three in the head.

Silence reigned over.

The hunter's eyes connected with the marshal's. _Now what?,_ they said.

She couldn't decipher if he was angry or revolted judging from his blank stare, but feelings were not her priority right now.

Samara shrugged. Her plan was just to get the soldiers inside killed, she didn't think of what to do after.

* * *

"What are we going to do with him?"

All four of them looked down at the now tied up soldier. They were currently in the process of deciding what their next step was.

"Are we going to kill him too?" Christa asked as she glared at Samara. "Or just turn him into a ghoul and drop him onto his soldier buddies?"

The deadpan look returned screamed no guilt. "Lady, you would be dead without me. You should be kissing my ass for saving your lives."

"Yeah, _thanks_. Thanks for killing Iréne and throwing her over the banister onto someone else."

"Who says I killed her? She got bit by her husband and died because of that. We all saw it."

"You are a big fucking liar!" Christa pushed her hatefully away before Omid restrained her from killing the Native. "You were seconds away from putting a bullet in Otto and I bet you would have shot Iréne also! Shit, Omid was right. I should have never let you alone with her."

Samara shrugged with amusement. "You say tomato I say tomahto."

The dark woman stopped struggling and simply gazed upon the Native with horrified astonishment. "You're a goddamn lunatic, you know that?"

Samara wasn't going to dignify an answer to that.

"Shut up, the both of you!" Daryl snapped exasperatedly. "I don't give two shits if she killed her or not! What matters now is we have about a dozen soldiers armed to their teeth waitin' outside for this guy's signal."

"Wash, are you alright, soldier? Are the others alright?" The Major's muffled voice came from outside. The others were probably anxious on what happened inside.

"Shit." Daryl raked his fingers through his hair. He crouched low to the soldier. "What's your name? And if you think about screamin', I will cut out your tongue. I got no patience anymore."

"Jim Connelly."

"Jim…crappy name." Samara grunted and, haughtily, pushed Daryl out of the way, all the while ignoring the curse and glare sent her way. She poked the man's chest with a long finger as she spoke. "So, this is what you're gonna do, child of the corn—you're gonna shout out to your Chief that everything's alright. Some of the hostages got rebellious and tried to fight back and you had to shoot them. One of your men got injured, reason for the screaming. You get me?"

The man nodded in fear.

"Good. After that, tell them that everything is clear and that they can come in."

Omid's eyes almost popped out of his head. "What?!"

"This way we can kill them one by one. Two of us are gonna be hidden behind those walls and the moment they step one foot past those garage doors, we start shooting."

"Are you serious?" If she hadn't been held back, Christa would have tackled the marshal to the ground. "You want to continue this blood bath?!"

"That ain't gonna happen." Daryl finally intervened as he pushed the woman away. "Indian, shut the hell up. You're higher than a kite." Samara pouted childishly. "We are gonna use him to negotiate a way out of this."

"We just killed two of their own." The marshal scoffed. "They're not gonna to be in a very negotiating mood."

"Whose fault is that?" Christa snapped, but the Native ignored her.

Daryl wasted no more time and pulled the soldier to his feet. "You're gonna walk slowly in front of me." He eyed all the others as he cocked his handgun. "Everyone else take as many guns as you can carry and have 'em loaded."

Samara wasted no time as she filled the holsters at her chest with handguns and ammunition. Omid and Christa geared up with guns and rifles. As they armed themselves, nobody noticed that Daryl found a smoke grenade on one of the soldiers and hid it on his person. You never know…

The three of them joined the crossbow wielding hunter, each of their hearts beating apprehensively as they waited for the showdown.

"What are we going to negotiate for?" Omid asked as he fingered the lever to raise the garage doors.

Daryl pushed the soldier forward with the barrel of his gun. "We give their guns and him back, and in return they let us leave."

"And where the hell are we going to go?" Christa asked.

"Anywhere else but here." Daryl whispered before outright shouting. "Don't shoot! We're comin' out with one of your soldiers!"

Omid raised the metallic doors and the others slowly left the building. They stayed in a diamond formation with Omid and Samara flanking Daryl and the soldier, and Christa behind them. They slowly met in the middle with the Major. His soldiers had their guns pointed at them.

The older man took a swift look at all of them before nodding to himself in understanding. "I see…The others are dead then."

"They tried to kill us."

"I don't believe that. My boys had their orders. No killin' unless they were forced to." He looked deep into the tied up soldier's eyes. "Were you?"

"That crazy Indian threw an infected on Tommy!" The boy finally broke his silence.

Samara flashed her teeth at the young man. "I'm Native American, not an Indian!"

The Major looked at her in a shrewd light. "Why in God's name would you do that?"

"Oh, I don't know, how about the fact that you assholes started shooting first." The Native snarked in her usual fashion. "And then had these three assholes try to murder us—"

"We weren't going to kill you, dammit!"

"Pffft."

"That was an accident, shootin' at you." The Major eyed the soldier in question disapprovingly. "One of my men got overexcited as one of the soldiers that died at the track was a good friend of his. It wasn't intentional."

"How the fuck were we supposed to know that?" Daryl gritted his teeth. He remembered how the bullets started flying and he and Omid narrowly escaping. He wasn't very inclined to chalk it up to a mistake. "We thought we were gonna die, that's why we are in this position right now."

"The way I see it, you just killed two more of my men." This time there was a threatening undertone to his words.

And Samara made it worse by opening her mouth. "Let _that_ be a warning to you, Hefe. Maybe you should pack your shit, take your dead, and go back to your walker infested NASCAR track. We're _not_ pacifists. I will shoot that outdated moustache off if it comes to that."

One of the soldiers took offense to that. "Watch it, bitch—"

"Fuck you, hillbilly!"

"Shut up, idiot!" Daryl barked at her. She was going to get them killed.

"Enough, soldier!" The Major tried to calm his riled up troops. He then turned towards the marshal. "She may have said it callously, but she had it right. I don't need any more dead on my conscious. What do you want for my soldier?"

"Let us leave this city, and we'll never come back." Daryl intervened. "We will also give you your guns back. You got my word on that."

"Sounds fair. But someone's gotta pay for my dead. I want that person." He looked all four of them in the eyes.  
"Who killed them?"

"She did." Christa answered without hesitation, indicating the Native. While the marshal wasn't as shocked as the others, she still felt a pang of betrayal.

"Alright. You leave her here and we got ourselves a deal."

Samara's eyes widened in dread. Like hell she'll stay here with these assholes! She's not an idiot, she'll either be tortured or killed or raped. Or all three in whichever order.

"Hell. No." Daryl's eyes flashed dangerously. The situation was getting out of hand. "I don't give a damn if she killed your men, she ain't stayin'. She did it to save us, and I don't see anythin' wrong with that. I would've done the same if I was in her place. You would have too."

The Major shook his head. "Son, this is not about right or wrong or what ifs. This is about justice. An eye for an eye. You either leave her here or no one's leavin'."

Hunter and marshal connected gazes, and the woman could see the resolution—he wouldn't leave her to this fate.

"Take them both then."

They along with Omid whipped around to Christa.

"Christa, what the hell?!" The Persian couldn't believe the turn in her personality.

"Iréne and Otto are dead because of them." She hissed furiously, but determinedly. "Ever since you brought them here, they have brought nothing but death. We have other matters to think about other than their lives. The three of us have to live!"

Omid hesitated in his retort and examined her last sentence with confusion. "Three?" He then realizes what she was hinting at. "Are you saying you're—"

"Yeah, it's not just us anymore. I'm not going to forfeit our baby's life for that maniac!" She pointed towards the glaring marshal. "And if Daryl has to go too, then so be it." There was real remorse in her gaze as she tried to apologize to Daryl. "I'm sorry, I really am, but my family comes first."

In her usual sardonic self, Samara deadpanned. "Yeah, thanks a lot, traitor. I hope you and your bastard child get torn apart by walkers."

"Christ, I'm not even sorry for doing this." She spat disgust at the marshal. "Take them both and kill that bitch slowly."

"No!" Omid burst out as he got between them and his friends. "We're not giving anyone up over! There has to be a different way!"

As the Persian argued with his girlfriend and the Major, Daryl and Samara were all but forgotten. Samara was off into her own little world in which the worry and dread was slowly killing her. Right now, Dixon and the Persian were the only thing that was keeping her from the soldier's vengeful little fingers. But if they sided with Christa…then, the Gods have mercy on all of them as she will unload all her guns until she dies. She will not let herself be taken.

"There's a smoke grenade at my belt."

Blinking out of her stupor, Samara let Daryl's whispered words settle in. Without showing any outwardly signs of excitement, she slowly and carefully reaches his back pants and fingers around for his belt until she finally hit the metallic canister.

"Take it, and when I tell you, chuck it at 'em and run. I'll hold them off as long as I can and then join you."

Samara dryly swallowed. People tended to die when they stayed behind to save another. "Dixon—"

"This ain't an option. When I tell you to run, you better run like the Devil's on your heels."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Her heart was racing against her ribcage, almost as if trying to escape her chest. Bullets will fly. A whole lot of them. Maybe they both will die, but at least they tried. But she had about 50/50 chances to escape, and even if she did Daryl might die. Didn't he take this into account? The Major might just lose that calm attitude and shoot him point blank.

As the arguments were reaching the breaking point as more and more soldiers jumped in, Daryl pushed his prisoner into the Major and aimed with his gun.

"Run!"

Samara wasted no time and threw the grenade. She doesn't even stop as the smoke engulfs everyone and everything outside the firehouse.

The bullets start flying and the screaming begins.

As she ran, the marshal saw something that made her blood go cold.

—Walkers.

Dozens upon dozens of walkers.

They were everywhere. Coming from behind the buildings, the cars, the goddamn trees. They were encircling the firehouse.

_Was this why Daryl made this desperate move?_

The marshal had to run a long distance to reach a safe enough position. Not even half there and she felt exhaustion weighting her down. The marshal was out of breath, gripping her wounded side as a sharp pain stabbed her repeatedly.

The screaming starts. The others have noticed the walkers headed their way. Guns go off.

Samara barely reached the narrow alley between two buildings a street from the firehouse, the pain and exhaustion making her fall to her knees. Heavily panting, the marshal dragged herself behind a large dumpster and peeked around the corner to see the walkers close in on the firehouse. There were no humans sighted outside. The others and the soldiers must have fled in the firehouse with the undead clawing at the walls and metal doors.

Samara heard a shuffled behind her. Sweat poured down her temple as she swiftly turned, silent gun in hand. There was a small walker, a child no more than ten. It was barely walking, dragging a broken leg behind a lame one. He was making these horrible noises—like a thirsty man barely able to breathe—these wheezing, hoarse sounds coming out of his throat.

The marshal started chuckling. The boy looked like a plucked chicken.

Realizing the turn her brain made again, Samara slapped herself. The pills were still messing around with her head and she needed to be relatively sane right now.

Raising her gun, Samara aimed and pulled the trigger. She didn't need the little sad sack of bones to attract more walkers.

_Boom._

A metallic growl of grand proportions almost made her jump out of her skin. The garage doors burst open with such force that the metal struck several of the dead, knocking them over with ease. The fire truck drove out at full speed, plowing the walkers as it went. Samara could see the truck bouncing up and down as it ran over bodies.

It seemed to never end—the sea of walkers. The driver of that truck probably though so too. Who was in that truck anyway? Was it Dixon or the soldiers?

Samara anxiety spiked when the vehicle started slowing down. It was because of the walkers. There were too many of them. Body parts got stuck under the vehicle, blocking the wheels from spinning. A few more feet and the fire truck stopped dead. The marshal could hear the engine roaring, trying to push the heavy machine forward but with no avail. The walkers are now clawing at the cabin, some even managing to pull themselves up along the truck.

A pop and glass exploded outward. Someone was shooting from inside.

The door to the driver's seat opened and the driver himself was kicked out, falling face first into the hungry sea.

–It was a Marine. Dixon or the others might still be alive in the building, if they weren't already—

The soldier's death rattle was short and painful as the dead tore him to pieces. The culprit tried to close the door only to have a walker intervene. The struggle for that piece of the truck was intense as more and more walkers took hold of it in hopes of getting closer to their prey. Samara watched as the soldiers in the back started shooting, some panicking and exiting through the window of the truck and climbing atop the roof, as if that was their salvation.

The man in the truck soon died as some of the bullets hit him and from the walker currently eating off his arm.

There weren't that many, Samara thought. Five only and two of them are dead. Where were the Major and the others?

Gunshots. This time from the firehouse.

The moment the firetruck granted access to the walkers, they wasted no time in marching inside.

A woman screamed. Christa.

Even after what she said and what Samara herself said, the marshal still felt a tad sorry. She was probably dying a gruesome death while Samara was out here in the clear (for the moment).

More gunshots followed, along with objects crashing.

"Goddammit, Dixon!" Samara hissed as she gripped her stomach. "Where are you?"

_Something wasn't right. Her stomach hurt too much…_

Looking down, she shakily lifted her top and groaned in despair. There was a slowly growing red stain on the bandage at her abdomen. "Shit!"

Her stitches reopened and now she was bleeding a waterfall. She couldn't stay here much longer; the stragglers would smell that sweet coppery scent and come-a-runnin'.

Five minutes. That was all she was going to give Dixon.

If she remained here, she was going to die, either by walker or bleeding to death. She would rather have a fighting chance than wither away here.

_Sorry, Dixon. I'm not nearly as nice as you are._

Samara counted the seconds—two minutes left. Looking over the dumpster, she couldn't see any sign of the living, only the dead shuffling alongside the building.

—Zero seconds.

The Native rose on wobbly feet. A light dizziness overcame her, and her vision doubled. Even like this, she still needed to move forward. Giving one last look to the firehouse, she felt a strange sadness. Her feelings for the hunter were extremely volatile. There were days where she loathed the man with a passion, and days where she thought she could almost consider him a friend. Their brief history was a rollercoaster of events and whirlpool of emotions.

Samara sighed. And now he was most likely dead. How the hell was she going to explain this to Grimes, if she ever got back?

Before she could leave, something caught her eye. Turning back around, Samara looked closer at the sea of walkers. There was something in there that made her pause.

As some of the walkers dispersed, the Native saw what had made her breath hitch. There was a walker, slowly but steadily headed her way, its gaze on her.

Samara dropped behind the dumpster. Gods below, how the hell did that thing see her from so far away? Walkers were retarded!

Eyeing the monster, she watched with a sick sense of curiosity as the walker approached. Her brow scrunched up in deep thought. Something was wrong about the walker. She had a bad feeling about it.

As it got closer and closer, she felt as if a stone just dropped in her stomach.

—It was _Daryl_.

The walker was Daryl _fucking_ Dixon, covered in blood with guts hanging around his body.

Samara couldn't believe it. Daryl was…gone. He was now a walker.

Mentally she was prepared for it, the logic behind it was sound, but seeing it was completely different. A man that risked his life to save hers—as ungrateful selfish life as it is—was now dead to the world. He was dead because of _her_. Because she got herself in this state.

Samara felt her eyes sting. She had never wanted this. Dixon was one of the few people who could emerge alive through this virus. He was like her, a survivor. To see him now reduced to a half-wit, brain-eating monster was—

…_Avoiding the others?_

The marshal blinked in numb astonishment. She then rubbed her eyes to dispel the possibility of her fucked up drugged brain showing her illusions.

_There! There it is again!_

Walker Daryl was avoiding touching the other dead. It was moving its whole body in a way a human being avoided touching others on public transport. The walkers sniffed Walker Daryl and some outright stared after him, as if they also noticed the peculiarity of their 'brother'.

As it got closer, Samara made eye contact with the beast. She knew she should have left a long time ago, but she had been rooted to her spot by the melancholy of a lost comrade and interest of this oddity.

Samara lifted her gun and aimed at the things forehead. Before she left, she would do one last thing for the man. She would end this hideous shadow of the hunter and let him rest until the end of time.

Seeing this, Walker Daryl's eyes seem to widen and he mouths something to her.

Samara paused incredulously. _Since when did walkers talk? Wait…_

She focused. It said—_Don't shoot._

Samara stepped back in astonishment and while she kept her finger on the trigger, she didn't pull, because there was still that hope that maybe…

As it/he got closer, Samara saw that the guts weren't his. There was no open stomach, no large wound to indicate from where the organs escaped. The guts were simply wrapped around his abdomen and tied, and there was an intestine necklace at his throat. The vast majority of his body, except the head and one of his legs, was covered in blackish blood.

It then hit her.

—He was covering his scent.

Daryl wasn't undead. He simply covered himself in blood and organs to escape the onslaught once the doors opened.

"Are you…you?" Samara whispered as cold sweat poured down the side of her face.

"Shhh!"

_Yeah…it's him_.

Samara lowered the gun and waited.

When Daryl finally reached her, the smell did also. Samara almost fainted right there, the stench making her want to puke her intestines out.

"Nice costume." Samara grimaced as she palmed her mouth and nose. "Halloween is next month, if you didn't know."

"Shut up." The hunter hunched over himself, his hands on his knees. Now that he was relatively safe, it all came crashing down on him. He just marched through a throng of walkers with just a crossbow without arrows and a shitload of guts and walker blood smeared on him.

He felt like puking.

"You bit?"

Daryl pulled himself up and shook his head. "No. Bullet grazed my leg, that about it."

Samara watched as the hunter started untying the guts around his body. It was pretty gruesome and it made these squelching noises that made the Native cringe.

But…seeing him in one piece brought a strange sense of satisfaction. And relief. So much of it.

"I thought you were dead."

"Almost." The hunter threw the last of the guts away and wiped his hands on his already dirtied pants, mindful of the badly bandaged wound. He violently shook his head to rid himself of the memories not twenty minutes ago. "I'll tell you later. Come on, let's go. Every damn walker in the town is probably comin' here."

"What happened to the others?" Samara asked as Dixon took the lead, arming himself with his hunting knife and the marshal's silenced gun. The crossbow hung uselessly at his back, void of arrows.

"They ran in some different part of the buildin'. Don't know where."

That was the end of their discussion. From there they communicated mostly through hand signs. Silence was key in their current situation. The hunter had been right—walkers from all over the town was slowly, but steadily heading towards the firehouse. They had to be extra careful with every step, every turn.

Again her vision swirled. For the marshal, it was a struggle keeping up with Dixon's wide, hurried steps. She understood that he was anxious to reach the car, but she wasn't in any condition to strain herself, much less to this extent. She already knew that her stitches had opened; it won't be long until she faints or, downright, drops dead.

From time to time, Dixon peeks over his shoulder. He checks on her to see if she was still following, or had lagged somewhere behind. He understood the pain she was under—he had walked more than five kilometers with a severe arrow wound and several other bruises and cuts on his body, not to mention the soreness from falling on a bed of stone from meters up. The pain had been almost soul-crushing.

She was a soldier, though. She gritted her teeth to breaking point and kept up the pace.

Several times they had to stop and wait for several walkers to pass by. They resolved to destroy the walkers only if they saw them, otherwise they remained hidden.

Reaching the main street, Daryl scanned the area for undead. They needed a clean run and this way was the fastest and the most dangerous. As the hunter stayed focused on his task, he didn't notice the marshal's anguish. As Samara ran, she had kept her hand on the material above the wound and in doing so, painted her palm crimson. The Native stared transfixed at the glowing red stain—the dizziness was now ravishing her head with a vengeance and she felt weak. Her eyes felt they would, at any moment, roll out of their sockets.

"Come on."

It took a few moments for Samara to register the words, and she slowly got up and followed. She simply stepped in Daryl's footsteps without much thought. She didn't even look around for any potential threats. She was tired—the walkers could eat her now and she wouldn't care—she just wanted to sleep.

She was barely even holding onto her gun. It felt like an anchor and she wanted nothing more than to throw it away. But she knew even in her muddled state, that if she did that, she would sign her death warrant.

"Hurry up!"

Samara picked up the pace, and in doing so, managed to tangle her legs and fell to the ground. The hunter stopped when he heard the screech of pain. Internally, he cursed her to hell and back for the noise she was making. That scream had probably been heard streets away.

"Get up! We need to keep movin'!"

Samara rises to her hands and knees, but is unable to do more. Even like this, her limbs can barely hold her as they shake enough to rattle her bones. "Help me."

Daryl grabs her from underneath her pits and pulls her to her feet. Samara hisses and defensively sinks her nails into his arms. Daryl said nothing as he was more concerned with her condition. Now that he was facing her, he saw the reason she was in such a deplorable state. The man cursed as a giant red stain covered half of her stomach and coursed down her legs in rivulets.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?!" He hadn't seen it. Even when she ran, she bended over herself and kept her arm wrapped around her midsection, blocking his view.

"Are you a doctor?" The marshal snapped sarcastically. There wasn't much the hunter could do with her type of wound.

"Can you run a little more? We're almost at the car." They were near the Administration building, the one that had been filled to the brim with walkers.

Samara didn't have much of a choice and started running. There was a limp to her desperate jog.

—It was too much already. She was physically and mentally breaking down.

_Tink. Tink. Crash._

Both living jumped in fear and surprise as something metallic resounded throughout the empty streets. They watched with bathed breath as an empty food can rolled across the street lazily just a few meters from them.

_Groan. _

"Oh gods…"

Walker after walker appeared from the alleyway they came through. They had followed them. All this time they had others on their tails and they hadn't noticed.

At the same time, as if reading each other's mind, they look down at Samara's injury. The _blood_. It was the fresh blood that brought them here. Like bloodhounds they followed the scent and the small drops that the Native left behind as she ran.

"Run…" Daryl's voice is small, before downright bellowing. "Run!"

Daryl intertwines his hand with hers and forces the marshal to run, injury or no. Samara cries out as she feels herself torn to pieces. The pressure her forced actions did on her body was so painful, that she literally saw stars and her hearing went numb.

Looking behind, Daryl saw more than a two dozen walkers chasing them with stragglers joining the fray. Slowly it was turning into a horde and Samara was lagging them behind. Without mercy, Daryl pulls on her hand and swears to the heavens that he will apologize later for this—her screams were _horrifying_.

_Please…stop…_

Her legs give out and Samara falls to the ground. Her whole body shook and she felt cold despite the hot weather.

"What are you doin'?! Ain't no time for a damn dirt nap!" Daryl tried to pull her up again only for the marshal to drop back unmoving.

"I can't…I'm done." Her voice was faint and she could barely express the words as she felt her throat tighten.

"Come on. Just a little bit more. We're almost there."

Samara shakes her head. She didn't hear the hunter, only some jumbled up words in his voice. Right now, she was in her own little world. The only things she heard clearly where her volatile breaths and slowly beating heart. With each minute the thump-thump of her life giving organ was decreasing.

_What a shitty way to die…_

Her eyes slowly turned to Daryl. _Run, you idiot. Save yourself._ She would have shouted it out if only her voice would have worked. If Dixon died here with her because he stubbornly refused to let her go even knowing that this was the end for her, she would haunt him until the rest of eternity. That she swore.

_It's funny_…It was just like in her dream. Both of them being chased by walkers which, ultimately, resulted in them being surrounded and dying.

Distant bangs brought some focus to her vision and she saw the hunter shooting at the mob at their backs. Samara wondered how long will it take for death to reach them, for the owls to come. She wished she could speak, she only needed two words.

_Shoot me._

But even a peaceful death was denied for her. Now, she'll have to endure those undead bastards ripping her to shreds. She just hoped her heart gave out before their rotten, grubby fingers reached her.

A shudder. A cough.

Samara's eyes widen.

Daryl looks at her horrified.

_Oh._

"Hey, don't you dare—"

The light goes out.

* * *

Her eyes open.

She is being moved.

She feels something holding her legs and back.

There's something hard against her side, something that is alive and rapidly breathing down her face.

Her eyes close.

* * *

Her eyes open.

She is thrown onto a hard material with a stale scent. A loud bang resounds on her right like a door slamming. Multiple muffled bangs reach her ears.

Her eyes close.

* * *

Her eyes open to a horrible sight.

Rotten, dead people are banging against glass. Trying to break in and get to her blood. Dozens of them are eyeing her with starvation. She feels a rocking sensation. Every time the dead push against the glass, she felt her whole body rock with the motion.

A screech.

She almost crashes forward as she is thrown around at an alarming speed.

Next, a more long winded screech that ends in a turn. The woman almost vomits from whiplash.

This time, something gently pushes her back onto the soft material. The pliable object moves to the wound on her stomach and applies pressure.

Samara blindly reaches for the object and comes in contact with warm skin. Spidery fingers touch and prod the callous skin. Like a moth to the flame, Samara intertwines both hands with his lone one.

_He was really warm._

"Hey, you awake?"

A gruff, yet gentle male voice spoke.

_Who is that? I know that voice—_

_Daryl._

Samara licked her dry lips. "Am I…dead?"

"If this is the afterlife, you got the short end of the stick."

The Native felt Dixon's attempts of removing his hand from her grip, but it was unbreakable. After a few more tries, he gave up and let it be. As much as Samara felt uncomfortable holding him now that she knows who it was, she really needed an anchor and his body heat was good enough. Also, the fact that by pressuring the wound he was sending sparks of pain throughout her body, kept her pretty grounded.

Samara's vision cleared enough for her to understand where she was—a car. A wide one by the looks of it.

Closing her eyes, Samara breathed in relief. She was saved, both of them were.

"What happened?" The marshal shifted in her seat. It was a bad idea since a thundering pain shot through her spine and abdomen. Samara bit her lip so hard blood flowed. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to stop the small scream.

_The drugs are wearing off._

Daryl almost jumped in his seat in surprise. He was already wound up like a cord after what they just been through, every other noise just made his muscles tense further until they turned to sandpaper.

He swore, the stress the woman invoked upon him was going to make him lose his mind.

"You passed out. Had to carry you all the way to the car." Daryl turned his alert eyes back to the road. Now that everything was calm, Samara could see the exhaustion clouding the hunter. He was also ready to blackout and probably couldn't wait to be back in his tent, on his own cot. "Walkers got too damn close."

When Daryl had shoved the marshal back into the car, the walkers had been so close they were in touching range. Daryl had to climb the hood of the car to get to the driver's side. He had emptied his clip in the few walkers he managed to hit and back pedaled out of Hampton at full speed.

Samara listened to his story with half a mind. The other half thanked him over and over. He saved her, _again_.

"You know…you keep saving me like this, people are gonna start talking."

He scoffs.

Samara loses the little bit of humor and stares blankly at him. She now realizes that she again escaped the jaws of death. But for how much longer?

"I thought that was it. That was the last time I would open my eyes."

Daryl is silent.

"I don't believe in Heaven or Hell. I don't know what happens after we die, especially now. An eternity of consciousness in a sea of darkness is not that appealing." Samara believed Christians call that Limbo. It was a scary thought—being aware of yourself but unable to do anything but slowly slip into madness and wait for the end of time.

Sudden pain.

Samara groaned as another jolt had her bend over herself. It was worse this time. It pulsated like a heartbeat, a beat that tried to kill her.

_Oh gods…_

Blood splattered on the windshield.

The car swirled on the road as the driver was taken by surprise. Daryl cursed loudly as he watched Samara projectile vomit blood and stomach acid on the windshield and dashboard.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she crashed against the side door, out cold.

Daryl stepped hard on the brakes, causing the tires to screech intolerably. They were in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere. It was close to nightfall and except for Hampton, there was no other town nearby.

The hunter cupped the marshal's cheek and turned her toward himself. She was out like a light and there was still blood flowing from her mouth in a thin strip. Carefully, Daryl placed his ear to her chest and found a heartbeat. It was slow, but still there.

Slowly, he peeled her top from the bandage. Daryl cursed at the size of the blood stain and the way it flowed down her legs drenching her lower half in blood. It was amazing she was still alive.

She didn't have much time left. Even if he sped off to the Greene's farm, there was a huge chance he wouldn't get there on time. They way he saw it she will die if the wound remained open.

So there was only one solution—close the wound.

Daryl got out of the car and raided the trunk. Every one of these fancy cars had first aid kits, and he was right as he found a small one underneath a hatch. Bandages, alcohol, tweezers, cotton swabs and…yes, a needle and thread.

The hunter considered cauterizing the wound, but he lacked the proper tools to do so. He wasn't good at sewing, never was, but the marshal's couldn't be choosy with how she stopped bleeding. Tying the thread to the needle and taking some other supplies, Daryl opened the passenger side and positioned the Native as much as he could over the two seats. Climbing the seat, he sat on her thighs as he unbuckled her belt and tied her wrists securely to the car door. He opened the bottle of alcohol and waved it underneath her nose. It did the trick as she opened her eyes with a gasp and a cough.

"I need you to stay awake. Hey!" Dayl tapped her harshly on the cheek as she was on the verge of submersing back into unconsciousness. "I'm gonna sew you back up. Here." He swiftly unbuckled his belt and forcefully placed it in between her teeth. "Bite on it. This is gonna hurt."

Samara nodded absentmindedly, still not exactly aware of what was happening.

Removing the bandages, Daryl tried to clean the area with some of the cotton swabs and alcohol. It was a good thing he had restrained her legs and arms—the moment the alcohol hit the edges of the wound, she woke up completely and started struggling like a wild bronco. Through the belt she screamed bloody murder as tears of pain leaked down her cheeks.

Cleaning the wound as much as he possibly could, he poured alcohol on his fingers and started tugging the old threads out of her wound. The process didn't take long, and soon she was stitches free. Now came the hard part.

Samara had calmed down and was now breathing heavily as tears continued to stream down her cheeks and into her hair.

Sterilizing the needle with alcohol, he stopped just a few centimeters from the skin. How the hell was he supposed to do this? Just zigzag along the way? How deep was the needle supposed to go in?

Daryl sighed in frustration. The clock was ticking and he was running out of time. He needed to do this now!

The sight of a small thin metallic rod going in and out of skin was both fascinating and disgusting. The marshal started struggling and screaming again, delirious from pain and fever. The skin around her wrists turned raw as she pulled on the belt to free herself.

It took longer than he thought, with Samara making it difficult by continuously thrashing about. When he finished, he cut the thread and knotted it as best as he could. The marshal at this point fell back into oblivion, the events of today all too much for her body.

Daryl debated in leaving her top on or not, until finally he decided against it. It was filled with blood and dirt and he just cleaned her wound. He didn't want to make it worse, so he tore it away from her body.

As he bandaged her midsection, he couldn't help the rush of blood to his cheeks. The Native's torso was clad in only a black bra and underneath the grime and blood, she was all toned with barely any body fat. It was rather difficult to keep his eyes firmly rooted to the task at hand. The fact that she was tied up like in some fetish porn made things even harder.

Finishing bandaging the woman, Daryl tried to find an alternative for her top. His was out of the question, it was filled with walker blood, and if he remembered correctly, Samara had chucked out everything they had found in the car, including clothes.

_Fuck!_

Leaving her with her torso bare, Daryl swiftly untied the woman and gently moved her onto the backseat. A pang of regret hit him as he watched the way her body shivered and sweat poured down her skin.

Closing the door, he returned to the driver's seat and wasted no time in driving at full speed.

They were the only car on the road and with the speed he was going, it would take less than an hour to get back to the farm.

Hopefully.

* * *

Rick jumped to his feet as a loud crash resounded over the farm.

Night had taken over Georgia not fifteen minutes ago and it was completely dark. Everything was quiet, only the crickets chirping their nocturnal song when it happened. A large impact—like wood splintering—had every occupant of the farm on their feet with their hearts in their throats.

"Jesus, what was that?" Lori gripped his arm in fear as she stepped to his side. They were both inside their tent, waiting for dinner.

"I don't know. Get Carl and get inside the house!" Rick wasted no time and headed for the RV. Along the way he ran into Shane who had the same idea—they needed their guns.

"T-Dog, Glenn, Andrea! Get your weapons!" Shane shouted as the unmistakable sound of a car engine reached their ears.

The camp was abuzz. Everyone was running around, arming themselves. Lori, Carl and Carol ran in the house to join the Greene's, while Jimmy and Hershel came out with guns in hand. The rest of the Atlanta group armed themselves to the teeth.

Dale stood atop the RV and watched through his binoculars as a large white jeep sped down the dirt road. "It's one car and it's comin' in fast!"

They didn't know who it was. With Randall's group on their mind and the recent disappearance of two of their own, it had them all on edge and trigger-happy.

Rick along with Shane stood on the dirt road, guns raised and aimed. The others hid behind the cars and RV, and Hershel and Jimmy were on the porch—if something happened to the Atlanta group, they would run inside and barricade the house.

"Don't shoot just yet. Wait for my signal." Rick said this for everyone, but eyed his friend ultimately. "Understand?"

Shane eyed him with slight irritation. After what happened in town—what Rick let happen—he didn't feel inclined to let history repeat itself. But the deputy conceded, although reluctantly.

His police training kicked in and Rick steadied his revolver. His breaths were steady and deep, no skip to them.

The car came in view and stopped about ten meters from them, scattering dirt and rocks about with the force of the car-brakes. The engine stayed on as did the lights, making it harder for them to see.

The others couldn't see who was inside since the darkness provided cover. They waited with hitched breaths and finger on their triggers. The car door opened and out popped a human shape.

"Stay where you are! I mean it!" Rick shouted as he cocked his revolver.

"It's me!"

Never in all his life did Rick feel more relieved than he did now to hear that gruff Georgia accent. Daryl Dixon was alive.

The others lowered their guns in surprise and glee as they spotted the visage of the hunter by the headlights.

"Holy shit, man. We almost shot your ass." T-Dog raked his finger over his head as the panic subsided.

"Where the hell were you, Daryl?!" While happy that the man was alive, Rick was also pissed beyond words. "You've been gone for three days! Three _goddamn_ days! Samara is also missin'! Do you even realize—"

"Shut up and get Hershel!"

The panicked, violent tone had the sheriff on his toes. Something was wrong. There was this bad feeling boiling at the bottom of his stomach. The last time Daryl sounded like this was when he found out Merle had been left in Atlanta, cuffed atop a roof.

The moment the hunter opened the back car door, Rick already knew who was in there. That bad feeling at the pit of his stomach was now close to erupting. When Daryl stepped forward with an unmoving body of a woman in his arms, Rick's stomach plummeted and he ran.

"Oh my god…" Andrea placed a hand over her mouth as the lights of the car illuminated the person in Dixon's arms.

—It was Samara.

Rick reached Daryl's side and inspected the damage. Blood was everywhere on both of them, on Samara more prominently. Her shirt was gone, leaving her clad in a bra and a stained bandage covering her abdomen. The once white material was what concerned him the most.

"Give her to me. I'll get her in the house."

Daryl downright ignored him as he gripped the woman tighter and started running towards the front steps.

Once Hershel saw the mess the Native was in, he placed the shotgun down and directed the hunter to the room Carl had occupied. The occupants of the house gasped at the gruesome sight. Daryl dodged the barrage of questions and focused solely on Hershel and the woman.

"What happened?" Hershel asked.

"She fell onto a piece of wood. The wound got infected then cleaned and stitched. But the damn stitches opened and I had to close them." Daryl along with Rick placed the woman atop the covers of the bed. "She's been sweatin' and shiverin' all the way here."

"Did you give her anythin'?" Hershel inspected her pupils with a small flashlight.

"She took a shitload of painkillers about two hours ago." _When she got high and started to act crazy_.

Hershel nodded, before shouting out. "Patricia, Maggie! Get in here!" He then looked at the others huddled in the room. "Everyone except my daughters, out."

Rick frowned as he felt reluctant to leave. "Don't you need he—"

"I got all the help I need. You would just get in my way." The old man berated the sheriff, before scrutinizing Daryl closely. "I suggest you get cleaned up. After I finish with Samara, I'll check you up too. Now, out."

With that, Maggie threw everyone out and closed the door on them.

"Daryl…"

The man in question closed his eyes in resignation. He knew that this was what was going to happen. That he would be bombarded with questions and, frankly, he had little to no patience left. He just wanted to clean up and sleep, but it seems that wish went down the drain. So he turned and faced the music that was a very angry Kentucky sheriff.

"What the hell happened?"

* * *

_**Foot note:**_ So, the Hampton arc is over. I had wanted to prolong it, mainly the action, but then I remembered I was shit at action scenes and made it as simple as I could.

Samara is in some deep shit. I only just realized it now as I was writing the end of the chapter in what a precarious situation she is. She's gonna need some major down time to recuperate, that is if she can or if she survives…heheheh….


	19. I Think We Need a Break

_**Note**_: In response to **DayDreamer123** – Hahahaha, you're right. I recently reread 'Ring of Fire' and I was like: 'Whaaaat? Did I really write this? Make Samara do and say that? That's crazy!'

I think…that from the beginning I wanted Samara to be one of those people you don't have to love to live with. You just have to tolerate them and try not to pull your hair out. I love characters like that fiction-wise. They're complicated and hard to save, if at all.

I like it when a reader _actually_ feels something because of the main character. Even more since mine is an OC. It means I wrote her in a way it emotionally moved you guys, for better or worse.

* * *

A gasp.

Samara opens her eyes in alarm to see three humanoid shapes leaning over her. Her breath quickened as something held her down by her shoulders, arms and legs. She began to struggle wildly.

"Hold her down! I can't do this if she keeps movin'!" An aged masculine voice bellowed.

"We're tryin'!" A male voice shouts. It has a drawl to it, similar to the ones back in West Virginia.

_Where am I?_

"W-What…what are you…" Samara tried to smack the arms away only to be pushed back onto the soft surface.

"Samara, don't talk." A different man talked now with the same accent as the second. This one was firm, but gentle at the same time.

A leathery material is forced between her teeth. Her jaw tightens on it reflexively.

_Sizzle._

…_Something's burning._

"Ready?"

_Ready for what?_

"Now or never, man."

Then she feels it. A white-hot, searing pain on her abdomen.

The leather material drops out of her mouth as Samara screams an unearthly, high-pitched shriek. Her pupils dilate with the surge of adrenaline. Everything is hurting from her skin, to her muscles, to her bones, to even her blood. She could just hear the blood boil underneath the skin; spread everywhere throughout her body and supercharge her brain to the point she could see only white in front of her. She swore she could _hear_ white.

The screaming stopped once the offending burning object parted with her body. The phantom sensation remained as Samara's eyes remained wide and her mouth gaping open like a fish out of water.

—Everything was cold. She couldn't feel her body anymore.

_This is too much. I can't—_

In her last conscious moments, Samara wondered why her heart beat so rapidly.

"Hershel, somethin's not right…"

With each breath she took the pace increased until—

* * *

A deep inhale.

Pale green eyes show themselves from behind tired lids. They move over the blurry surroundings with no recognition.

—Where was she? She didn't recognize this room.

Something moves at the corner of her eye. There is someone seated next to where she lay.

The shadow gets closer until the fog breaks and the calm, smiling face of her father is revealed.

"_Dad?"_

Diné Bizaad flowed from her tongue smoothly. It felt like ages since she last used the language of her people.

"_Dad, what's the time? Do I have to go to school?" _The panic subsides as Samara snuggled in the warmth of the blankets. Her dad was here. Everything was alright.

"_No, kiddo. It's summer break."_

"_Oh." _She tried to get a closer look at him, but every time he slipped from her vision. He was always just out of reach, enough to know it was him but unable to see clearly. _"You leaving for work?"_

"_In a bit." _The form moved towards her legs._ "Just got to check on your leg."_

"_Why?" _Her legs felt fine.

"_You broke it two days ago, you forget?"_

_I did?_ Samara didn't remember. The first and only time she broke her leg was in Junior League Baseball when she was 14.

"_You gave your old man a real scare. I've never heard you yell like that before."_

Now she remembered. Samara had been the batter that time. They were just a home run away from wining and becoming the new Junior champions.

Samara smiled cheekily as she recollected the memory._ "It was worth it, though. We won."_

She hit the ball with all the strength she could muster. It almost crossed the fence, but unfortunately it fell down at the edge of the field. The long distance gave her enough time to run the plates and head for home base. Regrettably, the opposing team player tried to rush the base with the ball in hand and dove, leg first, towards the base. The resulting collision between the two players ended with Samara's ankle broken.

"_Yeah, for you." _Her father scoffed_. "Almost gave me a heart attack."_

"_Sorry…"_

A callous hand rested over her forehead. It was cool to the touch.

"_You rest now, Sam. Gather your strength. You'll be back on the field in no time."_

"_Okay." _As her father wanted to leave the room_, _Samara stopped him by grabbing his hand. She didn't want him to leave._ "Dad?"_

"_Hmmm?"_

"_I love you."_

The figure wavered. That brought out an amused chuckle._ "Hmm, I told the doctor not to give you any of those strong painkillers."_

The woman rolled her eyes._ "It's not the pills talking. I just… don't tell you this often."_

Her father paused again. Samara almost loses hope that he's going to say anything, when—

"_Love you too, kiddo."_

Samara smiled and fell back asleep.

As her breathing lengthens and subsided, Daryl gazes perturbed at the Native. He had just came in her room not half an hour ago to check up on the woman for the first time since he left her in Hershel's care two days ago.

He had not expected her to start holding a conversation in her native tongue with whoever she saw in his stead.

* * *

Her eyes open suddenly.

There are two men standing next to her bed. One was prodding at her abdomen leaving her with pangs of soreness. The other was hunched over and looking at what she had on her stomach.

Samara tried to move her arms to slap the two strangers away. One of them saw her attempts and moved towards her face. A cool hand settled on her forehead.

"You're awake."

As she saw him clearer, Samara scrunched her nose in bewilderment. She knew the man.

"Didn't I leave you back in Atlanta?"

The sheriff's brows rose in surprise.

The other man, the one prodding her painfully, entered the clearer part of her vision. He was an old man with a solemn expression and bright, soulful eyes.

"Samara, do you know where you are?" The southern twang to his voice was deep, but gentle.

Samara's eyes slowly traveled from the old man to the sheriff and back. "I don't…even know…who you are…"

"She's still got a fever." The sheriff sighed, frustrated.

Another hand placed itself on her forehead. This one was cool to the touch too. "Not as bad as yesterday. I think the morphine's messin' with her mind." The man's clear blue eyes settled back on her. "You should go back to sleep."

"I don't…understand…where am I?" Samara didn't recognize the room. She didn't even know how the sheriff was here when not a few days ago they parted ways outside Atlanta.

"You're safe." The sheriff smiled softly. "Rest."

Her eyes fleeted across the room again, only now remembering. "Where's my father?"

The sheriff's smile froze awkwardly. "…What?"

"He was here just a moment ago. Did he get back from work?" She hoped so. She missed him dearly.

The suspicion in Grimes's eyes overwhelmed the worry. "How much morphine did you give her?"

"Enough. This is just a side-effect."

Samara had no idea what they were talking about. "But—"

"It's alright, Samara." Grimes leaned over and gave her a reassuring smile. "He's gonna come back soon. You just sleep till then."

"Okay." She trusted him to wake her up when her father arrived. Before she could doze off, Samara grabbed Rick's hand to gain his attention. "Hey, sheriff…"

"What?"

"Don't tell my dad what I did back at the motel." Samara frowned at the memory. "He's just gonna get upset. I don't wanna argue with him anymore."

"I promise."

Samara nodded in gratitude and fell into sweet unconsciousness.

* * *

Samara breaks out of the darkness with a gasp.

A nightmare. A very ugly one.

She took large gulps of air as if drowning. In her dream she and Daryl had never been rescued by Omid. He never came with his ladder. She watched as Daryl had been torn to pieces, screaming in agonizing pain. She tried reaching him, _saving_ him, but she herself got swamped by walkers and they all ate her layer by layer—skin, muscles, organs, blood. They left nothing but the bones.

But the worst part was the fact that two of the walkers devouring her had been her father and husband. Her father ate her brain while her husband her heart.

—She woke up the moment they started cackling hideously.

Looking around, she realizes that this was Carl's room—the one where he spent his convalesce days. There was a hooked up IV drip above the bed connected to her arm. As she moved one side of herself to reach the IV, she felt a pain stabbing her in her spine and ribs. Samara let out a soundless scream as she bit on her knuckles hard enough to sink her teeth in. As the pulsating pain subsided, Samara gingerly brought herself to her initial lying position.

_Idiot._ She now remembered the numerous injuries she sustained. It was a miracle she even—

It then hit her.

Tears leaked out.

She was alive. She was back at the farm and she was, more or less, in one piece. She dodged death again.

Those traitorous salty drops slid down her cheeks and into her hair.

She was _so_ relieved—

There are footsteps outside the door. She furiously wipes the tears away as the door opens to reveal Hershel carrying a medical bag. His eyebrows rise up in surprise to find her conscious.

"You're awake. How're you feelin'?"

"In pain. Dizzy." Her tongue peaked out to lick her dry, chapped lips. "Dehydrated."

Hershel approached her and checked the IV drip. "It's the morphine. That, and the after-effects of the fever. You're lucky to still be alive after the size of your injuries. I don't know how you keep gettin' yourself hurt to this extent, but I suggest tryin' to be more careful."

The farmer huffed as he looked over her bandaged body. "You must have some guardian angel watchin' over."

"I don't believe in angels."

"But they believe in you." Hershel helped the marshal up into a sitting position. Besides checking her abdomen, he needed to inspect her back.

Samara hissed in pain as she felt Hershel's fingers clinically prod the bruises and abrasions on her back. Her bones and muscles were still sore to the touch.

"Now, since you lost a lot of blood, we had to do a blood transfusion. Two of your ribs are bruised, and I believe one is cracked. Your back is the other main concern I have. You just recovered from your previous injury and you already damaged it again. Thank God nothin' broke."

"So, basically, I was in bad shape." The marshal bit her lip as the farmer prodded a rather agonizing spot. Probably where her rib was cracked.

"Bad shape?" Herhsel gave her an incredulous look as his fingers moved to the bandage at her stomach. "Samara, you were half-dead when Daryl brought you back. You thank your lucky stars that man was with you otherwise you wouldn't have made it. It's a good thing he stitched you back up before bleedin' out further."

_He did? I don't—_

Samara's eyes widened as she saw what was underneath the bandage. Raw, red skin. Samara could see the signs of burnt skin around the edges and scaly patches like dry cracked earth. The burnt area was big. About the length of her middle finger.

"What the fuck…?" She tried to touch the tender skin only for Hershel to push her fingers away.

"Don't touch it. It needs to be kept as clean as possible." Hershel opened the medical bag and retrieved a bottle of sanitary alcohol and cotton swabs. To Samara's plight, he began the tedious job of cleaning the scar. "I had to cauterize your wound. You were bleedin' too profoundly and while the stitches helped, it wasn't enough to stop it. I couldn't risk you bleedin' out or the wound infectin' again."

"Gods…This is never going to heal." Samara eyed the large barely healed wound with disgust. _Another one to the collection._

"Unfortunately, it's gonna leave an ugly scar. It's a small price to pay for your life."

As Hershel continued his duty, Samara braced herself through the pain of alcohol touching the injured area. She used memories to block out the ache—what happened after she blacked out in the car and until she woke up twenty minutes ago.

Nothing came to mind.

"How long was I out?"

"Three days."

_Three days? Shit._

"Don't remember?" Hershel took the words right out of her mouth. "It's better if you don't. You were awake for only a few moments when I had to close the wound." He eyed her strangely. "…Your heart almost stopped."

That startled the marshal.

"After I cauterized the wound, you stopped movin'. I feared the worst that time, but there was still some life left in you. It took an adrenaline shot straight to the heart to keep you breathin'. For a while anyway."

Two days they had to monitor her every move. Grimes' group took shifts in watching her. Even the slightest hitch in breath could have proven fatal in the first 24 hours. But she made it through, escaped the critical phase. But as the second day rolled in, the problems started—she had woken up at least four times, thrashing around, screaming in pain and hallucinating because of the fever. They had to physically restrain her from hurting herself or the others, or worse, straining the cauterized wound.

"Now, you're gonna be on morphine drip for another two days. After that, painkillers. You ain't movin' out of this bed until I say so, and I mean it."

Samara nods, not even thinking of further worsening her state.

Finished with cleaning the wound up, Hershel bandages the woman back with fresh material. After applying the finishing touch, he gives her a stern look. "I'm not gonna berate you. You ain't my family and you're a grown woman. But I have to say, it was _stupid_ venturin' off like you did."

The soreness coupled with the old man's prodding and stinging sensation left by the alcohol shortened her temper dangerously. "That coming from a man that abandoned his grieving family to go drinking."

"Yes, and you saw how that turned out." Hershel answered without remorse. He knew what he did, and he paid the price for his foolishness in the form of his suicidal young daughter, a couple of dead men and a teen with an injured leg in his shed. "Now, Patricia is gonna bring you some breakfast and after that, you rest."

"How long do I have to stay in bed?"

"Another week at least. I'm not riskin' your back damaging further. And after that, you are forbidden from doing any strenuous activity for at least another two weeks." He looked over her damaged body. "Truthfully, I would rather you not do anythin' for a month."

Samara agreed. There was nothing in the world right now that she wanted more than to lay in bed and sleep like a sloth.

As Hershel was done with his inspection, he prepared to leave the room.

"Hershel…" The old man looked over his shoulder. "How angry are _they_?"

He didn't need for her to voice who she was referring to.

"You disappeared on them along with Daryl. Got them worried for days." He gazed pointedly at her. "They ain't happy."

Samara breathed in deeply as she prepared herself mentally for the first wave to hit her. She didn't even had to think in whose form it was going to be.

She already knew.

* * *

Samara ate the food Patricia brought in. She didn't try to make conversation and neither did Patricia. After gorging herself stupid, she laid back into a light sleep.

When she woke up again, it was nighttime. She could hear the crickets chirping through the shut window. There were no lights on in her room, but the moon's glow provided enough visibility too notice the human shape in a chair by the wall opposite her.

Samara stares at it in trepidation. She can't see who it is and the fact that he or she had been watching her sleep gave her goosebumps.

"Grimes?" Samara took a shot in the dark. Almost literally.

The stranger took a deep breath.

"…How good do you think your idea was?" His Kentucky drawl disturbed the nightly silence.

"About minus 4."

"Don't joke." Grimes spat as he rose from the chair. Like a caged animal, he paced in front of her bed. The darkness and the moon's light painted his face eerily. "Do you have any idea what _I_ went through? What we all did?"

"I can guess…"

"We thought you were dead!" Rick shouted, interrupting her. "You and Daryl! Or worse, Randall's group found you and did God knows what to you! We searched for you. In the woods. The highway where Shane said you went. You were nowhere! Not even a sign left behind!"

Samara simply watched him.

Rick scoffs as he continued. "'Course not. You just had to go on your own. Do as you like. Because screw the others, what do they matter. Always out for yourself, doesn't matter that you almost give us a heart attack or you get yourself almost killed!"

The Native ran her hand over her face in tiredness. "Stop—"

"No." Rick approached her menacingly. He got right up in her face and Samara could clearly see the feral gleam in his blues. "Not this time. You're gonna listen."

"We broke into groups and searched for you on the road." His voice got dangerously low. "Maybe you had an accident and where unable to get help. We only noticed Daryl had been missin' when the sun went down and he didn't return from his hunt. We thought he decided to crash the night somewhere so he wouldn't walk in the dark." Suddenly his voice grew to a hissing shout. "But then, he didn't turn up the next day! Another missin' person! Daryl told me he saw you in the woods and accompanied you to the highway so you can pick your car. But instead of choosin' one and comin' back, you convinced him to go joy riddin' with you to a town 30km away from here, where if somethin' happened we wouldn't be able to know or find you!"

Samara tried to push him away just so he could shut up. Her temper was starting to rear its ugly head.

"Are you that incapable of givin' a shit about those around you and the consequences of your actions? You drag those around you into your mess and expect them to smile like you did nothin' wrong while they lie in a pool of their own blood!"

"Oh, give me a fucking break!" The marshal finally had enough of his screaming and accusations. She was physically exhausted and now had a headache forming. "_I_ convinced Daryl to go with me? Get your facts straight, Grimes. I _never_ wanted him to tag along. I told him to go back to the farm and let me go on my own, but he refused. Either he came with me or we both returned here."

Rick made a cutting motion with his hand as if to ward off her words. "I don't care who started what, the point is you left without tellin' anyone and you dragged a member of _my_ group into your bullshit!"

"It does _matter_, you bastard! You are trying to bump _all_ the blame on _me_!" Samara hissed in pain from the sudden movement. She was _beyond_ angry and, in her anger, forgot her injury and tried to rise. The marshal clutched her side as her pain receptors flared to life.

Once the pulsating pain turned dormant, Samara grimly eyed the sheriff. "Do you think I wanted this? To be stuck in bed for weeks barely able to move? Fuck you!"

Samara paused to calm herself. Her accelerated breath wasn't helping her sides.

"I didn't know there was going to be a soldier there. That I would either have to fight him or get mugged. Who the fuck could have foreseen his dead body falling on me, breaking the floor and me falling onto concrete with a piece of wood lodged in my stomach? I sure as hell didn't. I was just there to find cigarettes."

If she had known beforehand the chain of events that soldier would start, she would have never stepped foot in Hampton.

"_I_ don't think about the consequences? Of course I _fucking_ do!" Samara bared her teeth. "I knew you'd be angry that I left and I am _sorry_ for that. But what I needed in that moment overwhelmed whatever feelings you would have."

"And what the hell was so urgent that you had to disappear?"

"I wanted to be _alone_." Samara sighed despondedly, already missing the quiet. "I know for a fact that you would have never let me go, so I just left."

"And you needed to go 30 kilometers away be alone?"

"Are you serious?" She eyed him like he had grown a second head. "Haven't you felt the tension around here? It's absolutely _suffocating_. I can't even think without some other disaster befalling this group. I just wanted to be alone for a few goddamn hours and think about what the hell I was going to do. Unfortunately, it down spiraled into a shitstorm that I had no control over."

Something similar to an ice cold blanket settled over Rick's eyes. "Then I can make it easier for you. Once you healed up, you leave."

Pause.

"_No_."

"Don't test me—"

"It's not your land, Grimes." The threatening sheen mirrored the sheriff's. "I doubt Hershel wants me gone and you can't force me to leave, whatever you say or do."

"Fine." Rick finally answered after a short tense silence. He stepped closer to her prone form so she could see that he was being serious. The light blue in his eyes froze to chilling depths. "From this moment on, you're on your own. I told you once Samara, you do anything to endanger my group and I will kick you out without a second thought. _I_ lead this group! You either go by _my_ rules or be gone." He straightened out, no longer looking at her as a friend. He closed off his trust to her. "You crossed the line this time and I _can't_ forgive that. From this point on, you're on your own."

Samara swallowed thickly.

The air between them was…_overwhelming_.

_I…never wanted…this. But—_

"I think…that would be for the best."

They stare at each other for a long time. Minute by minute, the understanding of what they just agreed to was settling in. There was no going back from this, they both knew.

—It was all falling apart.

Rick turned from her and Samara didn't stop him as he headed for the exit.

"When…"

Olive eyes connected with the sheriff's back. He stood frozen, his hand on the doorknob. Rick's voice was so low and soft that Samara had to strain her ears to hear his words.

"When Daryl got you out of the car, you were covered in blood and not movin'." His voice cracked as if reliving the memory. "I thought…that was _it_. That he brought your body back to be buried. I thought—"

Rick doesn't finish. Instead he took a deep breath as he left the room, and Samara to her troubled thoughts.

It was in that moment that the Native realized that she hurt him more deeply than she could ever imagine.

* * *

Spending two days restricted to a bed was not as relaxing as she thought it would be.

Between the pains and general inertia, it was spectacularly boring. Patricia had took some pity on her and brought her some books to occupy her time. Unfortunately, the morphine and other medication kept her vision blurry and doubled, so she only had short periods of time where she could read. The other half she spent either sleeping or staring into space.

After Rick left, she noticed her belongings in the corner of the room. She understood the gesture—she was no longer welcome in the camp. If she wanted to set up her tent again, she'll have to do it somewhere away from the Atlanta group.

She hadn't spoken much to the others except for Dale, Carol and T-Dog that had visited her a few times. While peeved, they were not _that_ affected by Samara's trip to Hampton. They were just glad she and Daryl were alive and relatively well.

While they all knew about Rick's rupture with her, it didn't mean that the others would stop interacting with Samara. Dale even vocalized the fact that Rick shouldn't have driven her away. If Rick still kept the trigger-happy Shane around why the hell would he kick her out? At that point, Samara wondered if the old man put her in the same category as Shane.

T-Dog had brought her up on current events that she missed while in Hampton—Randall was healing fine, Beth attempted suicide with Andrea having a part in it. Maggie had banned the blonde woman from entering the house ever again.

During Carol's visit, Samara asked the older woman if she could find Daryl and send him to her. That was a day ago.

It was night now. The house was relatively quiet except for a pair of footsteps rummaging in the kitchen. Samara had taken her last morphine dose for today and despite feeling groggy, she was conscious enough to know what was happening around her.

She felt empty. The confrontation with Rick left her hollow and furious. She had expected him to shout and rage, not go to such extremes. But he had warned her…She remembered that time under the tree when they agreed upon the terms of her remaining with the group. If she did anything to endanger the group, she was out.

Samara had forgotten about it, but it seems the sheriff didn't.

While distressed, there was something else she felt. There at the back of her heart. A sort of relief—

She heard the distinctive squeak of the room's door hinges announcing a late night visitor. Squinting her eyes, she was surprised to see the form of Daryl Dixon enter her room.

"What the hell took you so long?"

He frowned as he sat down in the bedside chair. "I ain't your dog to come every time you holler."

Samara snorted in amusement. Nothing much changed between them. They still snapped their teeth at one another.

"What do you want?"

Now, Samara was in a bit of a bind. She wanted to thank him for saving her life, but she didn't want to do it outright.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Daryl nodded after a pause. After everything that's happened, he had been very fortunate to sustain so few injuries. Even the bullet graze was healing along nicely.

Some people would call that a miracle. Daryl thought it was just good luck on his part.

"That's good."

The air suddenly became awkward. She could see the way Daryl kept glancing at the door. He was probably counting the seconds until he could leave.

Samara sighed. They were going nowhere with small talk.

"Daryl…" She licked her dry lips. _It was now or never_. "I just wanted to thank you…and apologize for the disaster it all turned out to be. I never wanted that to happen and I know it's partially my fault." Despite her talk with Rick, she knew that there was some blame on her part for the state she was in. "I dragged us there." She kept pushing forward when they should have gone back. "You almost died. We both did. If you had left me back there, I wouldn't have held it against you, you know. I thought I was dead." A strange awe inspired look came over her face. "But you didn't, you dragged my half-dead ass all the way here. You even stitched me up again."

A smile.

Small and nervous, but still genuine.

"Thank you, Daryl. _Really_."

The instant she smiled, Daryl averted his eyes towards her cheek. He nodded and rose to leave. Certain memories rose to the surface and he needed fresh air.

The Native's smile was wiped clean off as she saw him try to depart. A haughty, irritated feeling bubbled up her throat and contorted her features.

"Seriously? That's it? I pour my heart out and you just nod?" _The nerve of this hick…_

He scowled. "What do you want? A heart to heart? I ain't gonna cry on your shoulder, Indian." Besides, her gratitude coupled with her soft words and calm expression had taken him off balance. Back in Hampton, she had shown him—unconsciously—her more vulnerable side. And now again, she was giving him a peek from under than stone mask and he didn't know how to handle it. "I told you once why I helped you. No one gets left behind, no matter how _stupid_ you are."

"I'm out of the group in case you didn't hear."

"For now." Daryl wasn't troubled about Rick's proclamation several days ago about Samara being out. "Even after everythin', Grimes won't keep you away for good."

A disbelieving guffaw. "Oh, do enlighten me as to why."

The hunter had several thoughts as to why Grimes let the woman stay. If he _really_ had wanted her off the property, he would have done it. He's had many opportunities to do so. But Grimes merely marked a line in the dirt—that's your side, this is my side. Don't trespass until I say so.

"Just got a feelin'…"

Samara eyed him skeptically. "Well, you didn't see the look in his eyes. He meant it."

Besides feeling hollow, the marshal was angry. Angry that this was the price she had to pay for wanting something for herself. Angry that Grimes actually had the nerve to try and kick her off the farm like he owned it.

Angry…that he would discard her like that. He _knew_ her. He knew what she was capable of doing. It wasn't so farfetched that she would go off on her own. He should have been used to it by now.

Samara sighed internally. She should have just left Daryl at the gate. Just drive on when she had the chance. If she had been alone, Grimes wouldn't have ostracized her.

_Heh, it's funny_, Samara thought. He always said that the others would marginalize her for her behavior when it's only him that does so.

"Quit broodin'. You ain't the only one that got their ass chewed out."

A dark brown rose. "Rick took a chunk out of you too?"

"What you think?" Daryl sank in his chair not pleased at all. The shouting match between him and Grimes had taken a while. The way Daryl sees it, Grimes took out the majority of his anger on him.

"_Are you insane?! You actually listened to her? To go to another town dozens of kilometers away from here? Have you lost your mind, Daryl?!"_

"_Back off, Grimes."_

That time, Grimes made him feel like an idiot. That he should have known better than to listen to the woman and go along with her plans.

"_Of all people, you're one of the sanest ones. Your instincts have always been good and I bet they screamed at you not to go to Hampton. Why the hell would you do_ _the opposite_ _and venture off while you knew Randall's group could have been out there?"_

"_The Indian would have left one way or the other. She's more stubborn than a mule, in case you forgot. If she wants something, she gets it. Neither of us could have stopped her."_

"_That's your reason?! She wants something, so you give it to her on a silver platter? Since when the hell do you even bend to her words? You two can barely stand each other and now you're at her beck an'—"_

It was at that point that Daryl's anger hit a boiling point.

"_What the hell was I supposed to do?! It was either I keep my eyes on her or let her go on her own! If I did, she would have died in Hampton. I guarantee that. No one would have known or saved her. So don't you yell at me for goin' with her. I made the right choice and you know it! And I ain't at her beck and call, dammit!"_

"_No, Daryl. What you should have done is knock her out and bring her back here. You messed up on that part."_

"You ain't the only one he blames." Daryl grimaced as he replayed the memory in his head. He hated being called a fool and while Rick didn't say it, he sure as hell made him feel it.

"Then why am I the only one in the dog house?"

"You fucked up before, that's why."

Samara glared at him. "You ran off in the woods on a stolen horse and fell into the creek, injuring yourself. Grimes barely did anything, just berated you for a bit and soon forgot about it."

"Like hell he didn't. I can't go huntin' anymore without a partner." Now his alone time was taken from him. Grimes knew just where to hit for it to hurt.

His frowning gaze settled back on the Native. "As for you…Indian, I don't even wanna know what the hell is between you two. The way I see it, he's takin' the hard road with you, but he won't let you go."

It was then a very strange thought crept into her head. One that in recent weeks skirted over the edges of her mind. One that made her bury it as soon as she got a whiff of it. It was absurd and had the potential to give birth to certain _dangerous_ thoughts and, as such, Samara ignored it.

But now, another person subtlety voiced them. She couldn't deny them anymore because someone else noticed.

Her eyes widen to a point she resembled an owl. "…You think he _likes_ me. As in more than just a friend."

The thought was both frightening and…_curios_.

"It's one of the thoughts." Daryl shifted in his seat uncomfortably. This was _not_ a subject he was comfortable with. While he noticed the bond between the two lawmen, Daryl had been smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself.

"He doesn't. _I_ don't." Samara shook her head in incredulity. _The sheriff and I? Together?_ "The last thing on my mind right now is to get romantically involved with anyone, much less a married man. Shit, you really think I'm _that_ kind of person?"

"I barely know you, woman. I don't know what you'd do or don't." Daryl had always doubted it was romantic, but it had been a possibility.

"Well, know this, Daryl Dixon. I'm not the kind of woman that breaks marriages apart. I wasn't raised that way." Even the mere thought of it made her feel dirty. "I mean, gods, he has a child on the way."

The hunter scoffed. "That baby ain't his."

Samara eyed him shrewdly. "I'm starting to wonder just how much you _actually_ know about what's going on around here."

"Just because I grew up different than you don't make me an idiot. I know how to count. The months don't add up." And he knew Lori had been fucking Shane long before Grimes showed up. He'd happened upon them twice in the woods back at the Atlanta camp. It hadn't been a pretty sight.

"Is there anything else you would like to divulge? Any other secrets you learned around the camp? Might come in handy when blackmail is an option." Samara snarked. She gravely underestimated the hunter. She wondered what else those sharp senses of his picked up on.

Daryl is silent. Like the calm before a storm.

He didn't have anything else to say, but—

"No, but I think you do."

"Me?"

Daryl leaned forward in his chair. For three days his nerves had been on edge. Theories upon theories swimming around in his mind and he hated each one. They felt like they would open a black hole capable of sucking all life away.

"What happened with the French guy? Why did he come back?"

The hunter saw the way her face froze for a second. He's never seen anyone so rapidly drain themselves of all emotion before hiding behind a stone wall. He could even see the shine in her eyes freezing over.

"Dammit, you know." His hand caught her shoulder, a hint of threat in it. He waited far too long. "Tell me, woman!"

"Not here." No change in expression as she tried to dislodge his hand. "You'll start shouting and I don't need the attention. Later, when I get out of this bed. I _promise_."

Daryl cursed under his breath. He won't get anything out of her today.

He retreated his hand away from her and ran it through his hair in frustration. This was the reason he accepted her invitation, and since she was reluctant to say anything, he had nothing left there to do.

"Wait."

Halfway towards the door, he turns questioningly at her.

"Daryl…" A flash of apprehension cracked the mask. "Did I really throw that doctor over the railing?"

Daryl nods after a pause.

Samara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She repeated the process for over a minute before finally stopping. She felt mentally exhausted. "Gods, I can't believe what I did."

"Like you wouldn't have done it if you had your head straight."

She stared wide eyed at him. _Seriously? _"No…I would never go to those extremes unless I didn't have a choice. I was out of control."

"No shit."

She shouldn't have taken so many pain medications. Daryl had seen how crazy Merle got every time he overdid it with the drugs, and she definitely crossed that line.

"I shot her." Mortification and disbelief contorted her expression. "Iréne was still alive but I needed her dead, and she was taking too long. So, I—Gods."

She buried her face in her hands. She murdered that woman in cold blood. She killed before, to defend herself or to survive or just an accident, but never committed murder.

_What the fuck is wrong with me…?_

_What am I becoming?_

"What's done is done." Daryl's gruff drawl brought her out of her thoughts. "If you hadn't, they would have taken all of us."

"She would have died either way. I just made it faster—that's how I rationalized it at the time. That I was sparing her the misery." She looked at him for understanding. "But that woman saved me and I repaid her by putting a bullet through her chest."

"Don't matter none." Daryl answered after a heavy pause. "She was dead the moment she got bit. It's a shit world we live in now. Sometimes we got to do bad things for the greater good."

He remembered a time not so long ago when he tried to put a pickaxe through Jim's head. At that time, it didn't matter if he was still alive, Daryl would have killed him either way. Because he had to protect himself and the others and because there was no other end to the man.

"Do _they_ know?"

"They didn't need to."

Samara nodded as she laid her head back on the pillow, a melancholy air settling over the room. "Do you think they are still alive?"

He knew who she was referring to. Christa and Omid. "We'll never know."

"What happened in there?"

Daryl sighed as he bit on his thumb. Everything happened so quickly that his brain barely had time to process all of it in that moment. Only later, when they were safe back at the farm did everything come crashing down over his head.

"When the walkers came, all of us ran inside." It was total chaos, all of them stuck under one roof. "The Major wanted us to barricade inside, help each other. Some of his men wanted to leave, not stay behind and join hands with us." The one that started shooting first was the instigator. It seemed like some of the soldiers had been holding onto some pent-up anger. "They started arguin' and then one of the soldiers shot the Major. Half of them left in the fire truck, the other half stayed behind to protect their leader. When those doors burst open, I started shootin'." Wave after wave came inside. The geeks trampled over each other to get to them. "The moment I ran out of bullets was when I ran upstairs and locked myself in the dormitory. I had to—"

He bit his thumb harshly, a bead of crimson rolling down his skin.

"I cut Otto up and smeared his…_him_…all over my body. Had to hide my scent." There was a faraway look over his face. His gaze remained on the small blood drop.

Cutting the French guy up was going to remain with him for a while.

"That must have been gruesome." She never had the opportunity to do that and she hoped she never would. "What happened after I passed out in the car?"

Daryl blinked as memories assaulted him. Her tied up and gagged. Him sitting on her thighs, stitching her up. Her upper body almost naked.

—Despite the scars, her skin was really _soft_.

It took a lot of willpower to fight off the redness that threatened to color his cheeks.

He stared at her without a flinch. "I stitched you back up. That about it."

"Huh."

Samara then grimaced. She had been trying to remember her conversation with Daryl in the car and came upon a distinct part in her memory. "I vomited, didn't I?"

Daryl scoffed in faint amusement although at that time there was nothing amusing about it."Like a geyser. Surprised the crap out of me."

"Heh…" Samara smirked slightly. "Admit it. You never get bored around me, do you?"

The hunter responded with a pointed look. It wasn't funny. He'd rather sit in camp all day listening to the others than go through Hampton again.

The footsteps outside came closer. Both Daryl and Samara remained still and silent. They followed the sound as the footsteps ascended the squeaky staircase.

When the house returned to silence, Daryl moved from the wall.

"The moment you get out of that bed, you come see me, you understand?" He slightly warned her with his hand on the door handle.

"I promised, didn't I?"

The look on his face told her he didn't really believe her.

Samara tsked.

* * *

_**Foot Note:**_ If you guys have time after you finish reading, I would like some feedback on the reactions of this chapter. I'm not 100% sure, but I think I pulled them off.

Also, it's gonna be interesting to see how things will go from here on. Samara's effectively been voted off the island, so she has to fend for herself.

Will she go back to her scheming ways or will she change for the greater good?


	20. Pass the Peace Pipe

_**Note:**_ Hmmm…we are getting near to the end. How exciting.

To **Daydreamer123**: I don't know about that, I mean Rick still loves his wife and all, but I could see him do it. Huehuehue. You really are in the SamaraXRick camp, huh? That's okay with me. Anything can happen.

To **Vero**: A threesome?! Ugh…that would be too JackKateSawyer for me. Or that weird dream Sookie had with those two vampires. It's an interesting and _spicy_ thought, but I don't know. It would be kinda far-fetched. Dude, you have a crush on me? I'm flattered, but also creeped out. Please do continue.

* * *

"Hey!"

Samara grunted as her eyes moved behind closed lids. Other than that, she simply slipped back into oblivion.

"Get up, dammit!"

Something repeatedly poked her in the shoulder. The action caused her enough annoyance to wake up fully, red eyed and claws out.

"I swear to the Gods, I will murder—" She stops short as the frowning face of Daryl Dixon assaulted her barely awakened vision. "Daryl? What the fuck are you doing? It's…" She peeked at the alarm clock next to her bed and all but exploded in anger. "6 AM! Are you fucking kidding me!?"

The man in question covered her mouth so she wouldn't wake up the entire house. "We're gonna talk, right _now_. I ain't waitin' anymore. So, get up."

Samara rolled her eyes in exasperation and strongly considered biting his hand, then shouting 'rape' so he would leave and let her sleep. Not even three days have passed and he already broke their deal regarding the truth about Otto.

Spidery fingers grasped larger, callous ones and shoved them away from her mouth. With a hiss, Samara rose to a sitting position and shooed the now awake Alistair off the bed. For the second time since yesterday, she got out of bed. Granted, her excursion around her room only lasted a few minutes, but it was an important step towards a speedy recovery. But now, Dixon wanted her to leave her room and walk to Gods know where in the middle of the night which will most likely put a strain on her convalescence self.

—She only hoped she didn't pass out ten steps in.

Gingerly, she rose to her feet using the hunter as support. Daryl didn't seem to mind as he gripped her arm, assisting her up. Once on her feet, he backed away from her and let the marshal slowly follow him. Alistair in turn followed as the prospect of getting some fresh air presented itself.

"Where to?"

"The stables."

The house was eerily silent. Only Daryl's silent footsteps, Alistair's soft paws and Samara's dragging feet were heard. The hunter directed them towards the backdoor of the house since this way was faster.

As they reached the threshold of the house, Samara's labored breathing mixed in with the rhythmic _tap-tap_ of their shoes. She stopped against the doorframe, panting heavily. She could feel her knees banging against another as the shaking ran wild through her body.

This was as far as she could go.

Daryl noticed the lack of a second shadow and saw the marshal a distance back, bended over herself in exhaustion. The dog was pawing at her feet with a small whine, responding to her distress.

With a grit of his teeth, Daryl proceeded to drag her by the arm.

—It was like an electric current traveling all the way down her spine.

"Let go, Daryl!" She punched him in the arm, her voice on the verge of frenzy. Her agitation in turn made the dog restless as he jumped the hunter's legs. "It hurts!"

Daryl backed off, annoyed. Not at her, but at _himself_. His impatience was getting the better of him. He turned his gaze away from her bent over form.

Gentle fingers wrapped around her midsection, just above the injury, and the other hand helped her up by the arm. Samara gripped the back of his shirt and they slowly walked towards the stables with the dog following closely.

The tiny figures enter the hidden recesses of the stable as a pair of binoculars lowered to reveal shimmering eyes the color of the summer sky.

"I guess near death experiences _do_ bring people closer…"

"Hmm? Did you say somethin', Andrea?" Dale gave the woman a questioning look. He was her replacement on watch duty and he had been just settling in when he heard the blonde mumble.

"Nothin', Dale." The woman nonchalantly mused as the smirk remained still in place.

Daryl deposited the Native on a small wooden stool. The woman winced as she finally paused from the abuse her body sustained. Hershel had been right. She shouldn't be overstepping her capabilities so soon.

Alistair paced around the stable, sniffing the ground and the general direction of the animals housed there. The curious neighs and snorts of the horses accompanied their presence. The rising sun gave them enough visibility to see the shiny, marble eyes of the large animals watching them intently.

Samara slapped the horse behind her over the muzzle when it came too close to her hair. She didn't want the beast to mistake her tresses for grass.

"Talk."

Daryl stood tall in front of her, his eyes frozen over.

The marshal sighed wearily. The hunter's barely restrained energy gave her goosebumps. "Haven't you realized it yet?"

"Talk." His hands clenched into fists. No more delays. "_Now_."

"We all have the virus."

It was odd seeing life drain out of the hunter's face. She's seen that exact face on families that had been greeted by uniformed officers and a priest informing them of the demise of a loved one. The color drains out of them, then comes denial and ultimately they fall to the ground weeping and sobbing uncontrollably.

Daryl did neither of these things. He simply clenched his jaw to the breaking point as his gaze turned to stone.

He looked positively _dangerous_.

"We're already infected." Samara continued. "Doesn't matter how we die, we're all going to end up like _them_."

"How long?!"

The bellow actually made the marshal jump out of her skin. It had been so sudden even Alistair and the horses reacted to it in agitation.

"Lower your voice, dammit!" She hissed as the horse behind her shook its mane, pawing at the ground. Samara would be lying if she said the horses' response didn't worry her.

"How long have you known?!" He paced back and forth, not even hearing her warning.

"Since before meeting Grimes."

"And you didn't think about tellin' us?" He spat in accusation. "Who else knows?"

"Rick."

"God fuckin' dammit!" Daryl kicks a nearby metal bucket, almost hitting Alistair in the process. The concentrates inside the bucket spilled all over the ground. "Figures he would. You'd tell him anythin'!"

She gave him a pointed look. "I _didn't_. He already knew from that scientist at the CDC."

That stopped the hunter's angry tirade altogether. Samara raised a curious brow at his frozen behavior. A faraway look settled over him, one born out of incredulity.

"…All this time…He knew all this time and didn't think to tell his own people." It was sudden, the change from catatonic to a whirlwind of fury and violence. Samara actually felt her defenses go up when Daryl let out all that rage on the poor bucket. The sound of boot hitting metal before bouncing on one of the stall's wooden doors had the occupant horse rise on its hind legs. "Group my ass!"

The marshal watched in trepidation as the other beasts started trotting inside their stalls, reacting in chain to one horse's disarray. Even Alistair ran to safety at Samara's side as if she could shield him from the hunter's onslaught.

Daryl didn't stop there as he repeatedly kicked the container.

"Stop, Dixon!"

"Who the hell does he think he is!" Daryl growled as his boot continuously connected with the metal.

_If he keeps this on, he'll wake the whole house up! _"Grimes didn't want to create panic—"

"It ain't his decision!" The hunter left the bucket in exchange for advancing on the marshal. He stopped just short of the woman and leaned over her, boxing her in. The menacing growl coming from the furry canine fell on deaf ears. "You can't keep somethin' like this to yourself! What would have happened if T-Dog or Carl had died and, out of the fuckin' blue, came back to bite someone? A sorry ain't gonna cut it!"

"And you think screaming your head off helps?" Samara pushed against his chest to no avail. He was unmovable. "He made this decision based on all of you thinking you still had a chance, so you wouldn't lose hope and crawl under a rock. And there's the matter of Grimes's pregnant wife. I don't think he wants to induce that stress on her right now. She might just try to get rid of it." _Again_. "…Sometimes ignorance is better."

Daryl scoffed as he backed away. "Spare me your Native spiritual, Zen crap! What the hell else is happenin' at this farm? How many secrets are you and Grimes keepin'?"

"Me and Grimes?" Now it was Samara's turn to scoff. "What are we, Tonto and the Lone Ranger?"

"Startin' to look like it. It's always you two. First Shane, but it seems Grimes finally saw how goddamn fucked up he is and made the other unstable-but-still-thinkin'-person-with-a-gun as his deputy."

The indignation on the Native's face was strong. "I'm not unstable." _Maybe a little bit_.

Daryl waved her off and started pacing like a caged animal. Samara followed his actions with a frown. He was chewing on his thumb again. "…Look, I'm used to the idea that we're all going to reach the same end. There's nothing I or anyone else can do to change what will inevitably happen."

"He should have told us. It was our _right_ to know!"

"And then what?" Samara shrugged helplessly. "Nothing would have changed, Daryl. We'd still be out here, trying to survive into the next day."

The hunter gritted his teeth. "It ain't—"

"Are you two _alright_?"

Both snapped to attention as a new voice entered their conversation. And this voice came in the form of a blonde Georgia woman standing at the entrance of the stables. Andrea's eyes fleeted between the two with hesitation and slight worry.

"I heard screamin'…"

Daryl cursed under his breath. Their conversation was over.

With a pointed look thrown Samara's way to keep this discussion private, Daryl marched past her and then past Andrea without a word.

"What's got him all riled up?" Andrea asked with a raised brow.

"The unfairness of life." Samara sighed as she leaned back on the wooden stall. She wanted back in her bed.

Andrea looked towards Daryl distant form before settling back on Samara. Something akin to amused disbelief had her lips quirk up. "Had a lovers spat, huh?"

—The dead look Samara gave her could kill walkers.

"Help me up."

"I was just teasin'." Andrea chuckled silently as she helped the grouchy woman to a standing point. The Native leaned almost fully on the other woman. "How are you with the injuries?"

"Better." Despite this little excursion today, her cauterized wound didn't hurt so much as the day she woke up. Her back still throbbed different shades of pain and some of her muscles still felt stretched. "Hershel gave me the go yesterday to leave the bed."

"That's good. I tried visitin' you, but…" Andrea paused as her brows furrowed. "I ain't able to right now."

Samara knew why Andrea had been unable to step one foot inside the house—Beth.

"Andrea, why the hell did you help Beth try to kill herself?"

The blonde's frown deepened. "I wasn't trying to kill her, I wanted her to _live_. The only way for her to realize if her life was worth fightin' for was to experience the taste of death. To have it breath down her neck."

"Trial of fire, huh?" Samara shook her head as they approached the back door of the house. "But you forgot one important thing—she's a goddamn _teenager_. They don't know their asshole from their mouth, especially a recently traumatized one."

"It worked, didn't it?" Andrea stopped, resentment crawling into her tone. "She lives because she wanted to. If she refused then it was her choice."

_Ah, so that's what this is about._

"Andrea, just because you were deprived of it doesn't mean you have to force others to choose."

With those words, Samara was left without support. Andrea stepped away from her with a scowl.

"I thought you of all people would understand."

"I do." Samara steadied herself as her knees wobbled. "But just because I understand, doesn't mean I approve. It was too extreme and you risked all of our asses, not to mention you gambled with a simple girl's life."

Andrea shook her head as if to dispel her words. "Beth is _alive_ and she will _never_ try an attempt on her life ever again. That's all that matters in the end."

With that she turned away and left the marshal alone with only the dog for company. Samara watched as she disappeared behind the corner of the house.

"Goddammit, Andrea…"

Samara ran a tired hand over her features. The urge to sleep was even greater. Only problem was, she had to walk by herself all the way to her room.

Looking down, she made eye contact with Alistair, who watched her steadily as his tail wiggled lazily.

"This is going to be a bitch…"

* * *

The white doily drapes were pushed to the side and Samara felt her eyes burn from the bright rays of the sun. She shielded her eyes and retreated from the light like an underground creature.

"Gods, I'm turning into a vampire." She spat as she rubbed the spots out of her eyes.

"No question there. You already pale as one."

The Kentucky drawl snapped her eyes open. Turning around she came upon the image of Shane, leaning against the door frame. His dark eyes were watching her steadily from underneath his cap.

"Huh, didn't think you'd talk to me ever again."

She had caught only some glimpses of the deputy since she woke up, and only at a distance. Like Grimes, he seemed to avoid her. Not surprising considering everything.

"Trust me, it took me a while to convince myself to see you." He looked her over from head to toe. "You healed up good."

Samara looked over herself. Twelve days had passed since she fell into the basement and had a piece of wood buried in her stomach, ten have passed since Hershel cauterized the wound, and two since her little excursion to the stables. Despite looking relatively alright on the outside, her insides were still damaged. She was off the morphine and onto painkillers and the marshal would rather be back on the IV drip.

The cauterized wound still had bandages on. Once every two days, Hershel would change the bandages. They needed to be clean so bacteria couldn't settle in. Samara loathed those moments because she had to look at it—at the ugly sight of burnt skin, all puckered up and ridged.

She _hated_ it.

Hershel had given her permission two days ago to rise from the bed and walk around her room. She had found out rather quickly that she could only do it for a few minutes at a time. And that is why, currently, she was exercising that right to the fullest with Alistair watching over her in boredom. Samara had enough of the sick room, she wanted to go outside and enjoy the fresh air. Get away from this stench of death and sanitary alcohol.

"The minor scars are mostly gone, but my insides still hurt like hell."

"Yeah well, gettin' yourself injured like that takes some talent." He stepped inside the room, taking his cap off in the process. "You must be a goddamn _artist_."

The marshal rolled her eyes so Shane could see that he was annoying her, and maybe leave. Even Alistair perked up as he watched the man attentively. Shane wasn't deterred, though, as he sat on the vacant chair.

"Look, I'm here to tell you that even if you're out of the group, I'm still gonna keep my eye on you. Fooled me once…"

_Like I can't do it again, you ape._

"Thanks for the heads up. Now you can go." Samara started he slow trek around the room. Her daily training consisted of walking and stretching her arms.

Shane watched her little routine with slight amusement. "I was surprised when Rick told us all that you were no longer one of us. 'Course I never did considered you one just like you never did, so can't say I was upset."

Samara glared as she stretched her arms over her head.

"Come on, Samara. You've always been sayin' that you wanted nothin' to do with us." His habit propelled his hand to rub over his head. "Now you get the chance."

"You're not getting rid of me that easy, deputy."

"That's the problem with you, girl. You see leavin' as a bad thing." He hunched over, his elbows on his knees. "You think you're gettin' the short end of the stick, but you actually have it good. You ain't held back by anythin'. You can go anywhere you want."

"Where can I go, Shane? In case you didn't notice, there aren't many places that are safe, if any at all. Right now, this place is the safest."

"Safe…" The deputy scoffed at the silly word. "Until when?"

"Until it isn't anymore. And trust me, when that happens, I'm _gone_. For real this time." She had made up her mind the moment Rick decided to dump Randall somewhere far away instead of killing him. "To tell you the truth, I should have left when you all opened fire on the barn, but I didn't and that was a mistake."

She knew the repercussions of Shane and the others actions. Sound travels fast and walkers track it slow. It's been almost two weeks since they brought Randall to the farm. How long did they have left here?

Her olive eyes settled back on Shane with a curious look. "What about you, Shane? I'm not the only one that's been talking about finding greener pastures."

He shook his head. "Nah, I ain't leavin' anymore."

"Why is that?"

"Some things change." Those three words had a heavy meaning. He couldn't leave with the information that Lori was pregnant and the chances that the baby was his were high.

"You mean the baby."

His dark eyes thinned to slits. "What…do you mean about that?" If it weren't for Shane's impulsive reactions, Samara would have laughed at how easily she could rile him up.

"Back at the church, you and Lori were talking. I just happened to be in the vicinity, smoking a cigarette. You should be more careful where you talk about secrets. Anyone can hear if they just pass by."

Meaning her and Andrea.

"Did you tell Rick?" There was a feral gleam about him as he rose to his feet. Alistair mimicked his movements as his fur stood up in tension. "Does he know?"

"I didn't tell him. That's between you and his wife." Samara didn't even flinch as the deputy took a closer step to her. "As for him knowing…he'd have to be pretty fucking stupid not to have put two and two together." Grimes knew. How long had he known? _That_ was a mystery to her. "I have to say, Shane, fucking your best friend's wife just weeks after he _presumably_ died…Not your brightest idea."

Shane stopped right in front of her, a few centimeters separating their bodies. There was current in the air. They could feel the tension between them right down to their very bones.

It felt like they were taken back to that little town bar, right back to their standoff.

A low rumble was the only sound heard between them. If Shane made one wrong move, Alistair would jump him. He had become rather protective as of late.

"You don't like me, do you?" The whisper had a treacherous edge to it.

"I don't care about you, there's a difference." She lifted her chin arrogantly. "You're an instigator of chaos, Shane. I don't know if you've always been like this or it was triggered by the recent months, but you're _losing_ it."

After the barn shootout and the scene he had caused, she was sure more than ever that he will snap one day and kill someone out of anger. Dale had been right all along.

The threatening edge faded from his gaze and he stepped back from the marshal. "Maybe I am…"

He ran his hand over his head again. His shoulders slumped as the burdens came back and weighted on him. Shane wasn't a fool. He knew he was slipping…and he didn't have the will to stop it.

His steps took him to the door. "We're takin' Randall away today."

"Are you going to kill him?" Samara eyed him as he placed his cap back on.

"If it were up to me, yeah. But it ain't."

Finally alone to her thoughts, Samara sat back on the bed and petted Alistair's fur. He was too on edge these days and was constantly shadowing her ever since she woke up. She had tried shooing the mutt away, but he just jumped back in through the open window. After that, she had just let him do as he pleased.

So, Randall won't be around any longer. Samara held no illusions that the boy will survive out there with his leg still bummed. She just hoped Grimes will go through with his decision…

* * *

The door to the house opens and the shapes of Alistair and Samara stumbled out. After several hours of either pacing in circles or laying in bed, Samara toughened up and left her room, one step at a time. As the outside air hit her senses, the marshal felt her muscles relax. She stopped to breathe in deeply, breathe the fresh air that can only be found in the countryside.

_This is as far as I go for today._

She eyed the rocking chair with slight distaste. The golden-green ocean of grass seemed much more appealing than a wooden chair, but alas if she wanted a speedy recovery she'll have to follow Hershel's advice.

Making herself cozy in the stiff chair, the marshal placed her book in her lap and overlooked the fields. It was only around two in the afternoon and the sun was still scorching everything it set its sight on. It was a week into September now. The verdant green of the world was starting to wither into gold, orange and maroon, and even with the sun high-up, there was a slight chill in the air.

The others were buzzing around the camp doing chores. Alistair had settled sideways on the porch, not too far from her. Dale was in his usual spot atop the RV with Andrea. T-Dog was chopping wood while discussing something with Glenn. Lori and Carol were folding some laundry and Rick and Shane hunched over a map, most likely discussing where to take Randall.

She just hoped that they would take Randall far away and that by some miracle he would fall and break his neck.

Samara skipped the two lawmen and searched for the one man she hadn't seen since their talk in the stables. She had only caught glimpses of him from her window as he went to and from the forest, and like Rick promised, always accompanied by either Glenn or T-Dog. But since both were here at camp, it meant the hunter was also.

She wanted to talk to him. It had been two days since she revealed the truth and she just wanted to know how his mental state was.

With no results in sight, Samara gave up her perusal and opened her book at the last page she read.

* * *

Rick and Shane huffed as they settled Randall in the trunk of Shane's car. The boy struggled as he was blindfolded, gagged and tied up with headphones deeply imbedded in his ears. The music bleared at the maximum to block out any outside noise.

Shane stepped away to get his weapons as Rick waited by the car. They had decided to leave Randall eighteen miles away from here, but what Shane didn't know was that Rick was going to drive further to find a building or something to give the boy a fighting chance.

His blue gaze traveled over the camp. He had stirred quite a commotion when they brought Randall out of the barn. The others kept throwing furtive glances towards him and the back of the car.

—They were afraid. Afraid that Randall will survive and somehow bring his group over their heads.

He understood their worries. He also felt apprehension crawl under his skin.

As his gaze skipped each person it involuntarily landed on the one person his mind wanted nothing to do with, but his heart said otherwise. He had learned from Hershel that her recuperation was going well and her bandages will be off for good in a few days.

He had avoided her entirely after her banishment. He was still angry with her and every time his thoughts ventured towards forgiveness, his mind would conjure the emotional turmoil he had to endure those three days. Samara wouldn't get any reprieves this time.

He knew that some of his group went against his decision and kept contact with her, but he wasn't about to rebuke them. Rick couldn't stop them from speaking to Samara if they wanted, but he will intervene if they started to help her with material things. He won't share any of his supplies with her.

She wanted to act independent? Then she got her wish in full.

As if hearing him, the marshal looked up and her gaze connected with his.

It felt like a lifetime had passed as they remained still as statues, unable to turn their eyes away.

Samara was the first to act. She raised her arms in a 'what?' gesture, complete with an arrogant attitude. All Rick could see was the challenge in her actions.

—_You want something? _You_ come here._

The sheriff turned away. Right now, he didn't have time to think about the marshal. What was on his mind right now was the road ahead. He had thought about confronting Shane on Lori and the baby situation sometime later, but this would be the perfect opportunity to.

He needed to make his friend understand.

And he hoped to God he could return him to the fold because right now Shane was balancing on a tight rope. On one side was insanity and on the other salvation, and the sheriff saw how his weight kept leaning him towards madness.

Rick had wanted to ask the marshal about what really happened at the high school. A part of him knew without even needing to ask, but he still wanted to hear it from her mouth. Unfortunately, their situation was too precarious, and he will not be the one to break the silence.

He should have confronted Shane sooner, Rick thought. He had been so preoccupied with everything else that he neglected those around him. His wife, his son, his best friend.

It was time for him to make up for his mistakes.

* * *

After the two Kentucky lawmen left the farm grounds, Samara and Alistair had relocated to the stables. Despite the hulking beasts, she found the place quite peaceful. She had moved there with the intention of continuing her book, but she realized soon that she had been reading the same sentence for the past ten minutes and promptly closed it.

She sat back against the door to Nellie's stall and stared into space as the cogs turned in her head.

During the days she had spent in the sick bed, she had wondered over her situation. She was now left up shit's creek without a paddle. Except for clothes and her weapons, she had no food and little ammunition. The Greene's provided her with food until she got better, but after that she'll have to fend for herself. Hershel had said that he didn't mind, but Samara did. She didn't want their pity.

So, her only option was venturing off the farm in search for food or hunting. She was still out of practice when it came to hunting but once she was all healed she would pick it up again.

But there was another option, one that involved her driving off the farm and never coming back.

She had thought deeply on it. It was a good choice and probably the best one considering her situation, but in her recovering state she wouldn't last long. So, she had to wait until she was healthy again.

_Yes. _The moment she was fully recovered she would leave this farm and its inhabitants behind. Shane had been right, there was nothing holding her to this place, to this group.

Samara was _tired_. Physically and mentally.

The month living with them, the drama surrounding them, the trip to Hampton, her injuries and Rick casting her off drained her of strength.

She wanted to be alone again. Just her and the dog. Driving the long road, surviving into tomorrow. No getting involved with other people's problems. No worrying about others. No more back and forth's about what is wrong and what is right. No plots or subplots, just existing.

—She just wanted the simple times again.

Samara knew that her relationship with Rick will never be as it used to. And she had no intentions of apologizing or listening to him anymore. If the sheriff thought he was the only one sick of her, then he was wrong. Samara was also sick of him and his choices. He was a dying leader with no backbone to do what was necessary, her eyes were clear now.

Rick thought that throwing her out of the group was punishment. While a part of her did feel that, the majority felt relieved. She no longer had any responsibility towards them.

_I wash my hands of you all._

But, before leaving she had one thing left to do. She needed to make amends to Daryl Dixon. She owed him that much.

"Why did you come back?"

Samara blinked to the present. There, at the entrance of the stables stood Grimes junior, his blue eyes regarding her coldly from underneath the sheriff hat.

_How long has he been standing there?_

She gave the mutt a quick glower. Why didn't he alert her? _Traitor._

"You should have left. Why come back here? There's nothin' for you here."

A dark brow rose. _Is he serious?_

"I didn't exactly have a choice since I wasn't even conscious. Besides, I wouldn't have gotten far with my injuries."

"No, I mean _before_." He approached her, leaving only a few steps separating them. "Before even gettin' to that town. You could have fooled Daryl and left him somewhere. You're able. So why?"

_Truthfully… "_The thought of leaving never crossed my mind."

Carl scoffed. "No one wants you here. No one would miss you. Why do you get the chance to live with us when—"

He stopped dead.

"When what?"

Something poisonous settled in his blue irises. "When you don't even _deserve_ it." Frustration grew as the marshal remained impassive to his taunts. "You know, I read once about barnacles. They're these sea pests that stick to ships and make the sailors life a living hell. You remind me of that."

Samara looked over him keenly before staring straight into his soul. "Carl…just because you're angry about Sophia's death doesn't mean you have to take it out on me."

His features contorted in silent fury. "Fuck you."

Without even a smidgen of hesitation, Samara grabbed Carl by the shirt and pulled him to her with enough force to make him stagger. Alistair ran from his place at her side, avoiding the precarious situation. The hat, now forgotten, fell off his head onto the cold ground.

"Boy, I'm not your mother or your father." She spat coldly. "There's no way in hell I'll accept a little shit mouthing off to me."

"What are you going to do? Hit me?" He tried prying her hands off him with little success.

"I don't have the patience for children, much less arrogant ones, so there's a possibility I will slap you into unconsciousness." She brought him closer for effect. "Don't think for a second I don't have it in me."

Carl's eyes widen as he believed her and his attempts to pry her off reinforce.

"Let me go!"

"Apologize."

He glared at her. "Go to hell!"

"I'm already there, boy." Samara said with a straight face. "And you're there with me."

"Let me go, dammit!" His short nails lodge into her skin in desperation.

"Samara! Let him go!"

Samara did as Lori approached like a furious windstorm. The dark haired woman immediately embraced Carl and inspected him for any injuries.

"Baby, are you alright? What did she do to you?"

"Get off me!"

Carl pushed her away and stomped out of the stables with Alistair closely following. While Samara didn't hurt him physically, she did hurt his ego. And his mother fussing over him like a baby didn't help.

"Carl!"

Samara rose to her feet and caught the woman's arm before she could run after the boy. "Let him go."

Like whiplash, Lori pushed the offending hand off her and faced the Native. Her eyes darkened further with barely restrained emotion.

"Why were you holdin' him like that? If you hurt him, I swear—"

"I didn't do anything to Carl. He was just being a brat."

"I don't believe you."

Samara groaned in aversion. "Instead of accusing me of some other thing I didn't do, you should concentrate on your son more closely."

"Don't tell me how to raise my child, Samara!"

"I'm _not_." She stressed. "I'm just saying that Carl's _not_ alright."

The marshal hadn't been around Carl long enough to know how he was coping with Sophia's death, but these few minutes told her everything. He was not over it. In fact, he was probably getting worse.

"Stay away from my boy, Samara." Lori turned away from her, with all the intention of never laying eyes on the nasty woman again. "If I ever see you put your hands on him again I will make sure you never step foot on this farm _ever_ again."

"Uuuh, _ominous_." Samara chuckled darkly before it was wiped entirely off her face. "Why do you hate me so much, Lori? I get the fact that you don't like me because I had to be forced to look for Sophia and that bargain I made for the guns, but there has to be something else because you seem to really _hate _me."

Lori stopped in her tracks and, despite her instincts telling her to keep moving forward, she turned around with pure loathing in her eyes.

"You want to know why, Samara? Because you walk around like you own this place. Other than look for Sophia, you do nothin' else around here to better the group. You just wasted time on whatever insignificant matter concernin' your needs."

"What should I have done instead, Lori?" Samara's brows rose in boredom. "Wash clothes, cook food, do some other menial chore around the house? I'm not one of those women that stay in the kitchen, Lori. I prefer to actually do something important rather than wash dirty laundry." Her eyes then flattened in cynicism. "So, me not wanting to conform to the roles of woman is the only reason you despise me? Shit, Lori. That's called just being _catty_."

Lori is fed up with listening and pointed threateningly towards her. "Just stay away from Carl, Samara. And my _husband_."

Samara blinked.

_Ah…enlightenment._

"So, that's why…" Samara grimaced. _First, Daryl accuses me of there being something between me and Grimes, and now this woman is insinuating the same thing._

"You think I'm sleeping with him."

It sounded so offensive and severe that it gave pause to both women. It was disturbing hearing those words, and it hit them both with various degrees.

"I don't know what's between you and my husband, but I know there's _something_." Lori said lowly, almost afraid to say it out loud. "He's too concerned about you, more than if he was about the others. The way he talks about you sometimes makes me feel as if I shouldn't be hearin' it, like I was listenin' on a secret." There was so much revulsion waving off of her that Samara could feel it on her skin. "And sometimes, just the sound of your name from his mouth makes me wanna slap him."

"I don't know about all that, but to me he's a friend. _Was_ a friend." _Damn Daryl and his fucking comments! They were messing around with her head! _"As far as I'm aware, people that are friendly with each other give a shit about the other's welfare."

"Not to that extent. Not when both are of the _opposite_ gender."

"Ah, the old saying—Men and women can't be friends." Samara huffed in dry amusement. She's had guy friends during her Army and marshal days. Friends that she never felt inclined to have her crotch anywhere near their genitals. But, she couldn't say the same for them. Some she knew wanted more, others nothing.

If the sheriff wanted more, then he was shit out of luck because she wasn't willing to budge even an inch.

"Look, Lori. I don't like Rick in _that_ way. I like being around him because he reminds me of my late father. That's _it_. There's no underlying reason to it."

"What kind of screwed up daddy issues do you have that you have to involve Rick in them?" Lori shook her head in disapproval. "You're _exhaustin'_ him, physically and mentally. If this is how you and your father behaved with one another, no wonder he's dead."

It was like a veil of pure, unadulterated rage had settled over Samara's brain making her see red for a moment. She had to sink her nails into her palms to stop herself from wrapping them around the woman's scrawny neck.

"Watch it, Lori."

The woman backed off, knowing that she had crossed a line. "All I want, Samara, is for you to stay away from my family. I don't care if you're lookin' for a friend or _comfort_ in Rick, but this is as far as you go. Don't talk to him, don't look at him ever again. We're tryin' to save our marriage. Stop tryin' to destroy it."

The Native scoffed. "Now who's being the hypocrite?"

"What?"

"Maybe you should listen to your own advice about your marriage." Samara combined harsh scorn with false pity. "It hurts, doesn't it? When you're the one on the receiving end? Having your spouse—the one person you hypothetically trust with your life—go around your back and fuck the first person that shows some affection?"

Lori scowled. "So, you _did_ sleep with him."

"No, you dumb bitch, I didn't. And that's the _last_ time I will say that." The marshal suppressed the irritation before speaking calmly again. "What I'm saying is: that it's _alright_ if _you_ go and fuck Shane right after you believe your husband is dead, but it's _wrong_ if _he_ tries to do the same?"

_Slap._

Silence.

Samara eyed Lori from the corner of her eye. There was a rapidly growing red tinge on her left cheek. Lori, shocked at her actions, immediately let the guilty hand drop.

Slowly, Samara turned her head back and gazed at the shorter woman down her nose. There was a chill between the two women, one not produced by the atmosphere but by volatile passions.

"I'm going to overlook that." The marshal's voice matched the chilling air. "The only thing saving you from a black eye is the fact that I have to lay low right now."

"I'm not gonna apologize." Lori crossed her arms defensively. "You were out of line."

"Was I? I thought I was right on the mark." She stepped closer making the smaller woman tense. "We manipulative people know one another just by sight. And you, my dear, are the worst of the two of us. I gamble with practical things, but you gamble with the hearts of two men. And the heart is always the most _dangerous_."

"So, don't spout your 'mightier-than-thou' bullshit, you're no better." Samara hissed as she eyed the woman in distaste. "_You_ fucked up your marriage, not me. How about you take some responsibility for that and stop trying to find a scapegoat?"

Lori heaved as she kept her mouth shut from inciting further aggression between them. With stiff, jerky movements she left the marshal and disappeared in search of her son. Something she should have done from the beginning.

Samara let out a long, labored breath as she leaned against the wooden walls.

_Goddammit all to hell!_ _I am so tired of this bullshit!_

* * *

After her tiff with Lori, Samara had asked the first person she encountered—Glenn—to tell Daryl that she wanted to see him.

Not even ten minutes later, Glenn came back with a shake of his head. Daryl wanted to stay as far away from her as possible.

With a scowl, the Native borrowed one of Hershel's old wooden canes and headed towards the hick bastard all the way cursing the man under her breath. He knew she couldn't move far. Probably bet on the fact that she wouldn't be stupid enough to come looking for him with her body all banged up.

_Jokes on him._

It was around seven in the evening and the sun was starting to set. Five hours have passed since Rick and Shane left the farm and Samara could see that it had the others on edge. Probably why Lori had snapped so easily with her.

Not even halfway to his tent, Samara stopped to take in deep breaths. With soft caresses, she massaged the sore spots in her lower back. It will take a lot of time until she no longer felt her back flare at every step.

Gritting her teeth, she continued on. She knew that the others could see her and the direction where she was headed, but right now she didn't give a rat's ass.

"Dixon!" Samara called out as she was just a few meters away from his tent.

A rustle was heard and the man himself came from behind the tall brick wall, a deep frown narrowing his icy eyes. There were two handmade arrows held between his fingers. It seems he was replenishing his supply.

"I told Glenn I didn't wanna talk to you."

"I know, that's why I'm here." Samara stopped just a few steps away from him, breathing heavily.

"Well then, turn right back around and leave! I got nothing' to say to you!"

Samara's eyes narrowed to slits as the man had the _audacity_ to turn his back on her and walk away.

"Don't you run away from me!" She wobbled after him, seconds away from throwing the cane at his head.

"I ain't runnin', squaw!"

"Then face me, hillbilly!"

Samara stopped with a pained hiss. She leaned over herself as pain flooded her abdomen. She hadn't looked where she was going and stepped on a rock, moving the bones in her leg higher than necessary and upsetting the cauterized wound.

Daryl stopped also and watched as she lowered herself to the earth, still hugging her stomach.

Approaching the woman, the hunter looked over her with veiled concern.

"I'll get Hershel."

"No!" Samara caught hold of his jeans before he could move away from her. "No, I'm fine."

Taking in a shuddering breath, she eyed him astutely. There were tiny droplets at the corner of her eyes, just hanging on to her dark lashes. "Look, I know you're still angry, but you need to let it go."

"Don't tell me what I should do, woman." The glower was half-hearted.

"Are you really _that_ upset?"

—Was she serious?

"What do you think? I ain't gonna let this blow over." He shook his head adamantly. "Not _this_."

"We should concentrate on more important things than something that's out of our control."

"Like what?"

"Like…" This was it. If she didn't say it now, she never will. "Me and you."

Daryl was taken aback. He had _not_ expected that. He didn't even know there was a 'him and her'. "The hell does that mean?"

"I want to bury the hatchet."

"What, in me?" He couldn't stop himself from being suspicious.

"Don't tempt me." She glowered, before running a tired hand over her features. She didn't want to start a fight with him, not now. "Dammit, Daryl. I want you to listen to me and not interrupt. Can you do that?"

The pleading look she gave him almost had the hunter avert his eyes. She was showing him that other side of hers again. The frequently of these 'slip ups' was beginning to increase and Daryl didn't know what to think about it.

Daryl crouched beside her, showing her that he was willing to listen.

Grateful, Samara nodded in appreciation. Now that she had the floor, she could feel her heart beating erratically. This was uncomfortable territory. Spilling her guts out was not one of her pastimes and this would be the second time she did it in one week, to this man no less.

—She didn't feel very enthusiastic about it.

Her green eyes connected with his light blue. For once, he was patient. Giving her the time to find her words.

_Now or never._

Taking a deep breath, she began speaking.

"I used to hate people like you. _Hate_." She emphasized the word meaningfully. "I still do, but…"

Her voice broke off, the grimace sliding right off and a contemplating one taking its place.

"But you're not like _them_, are you? Every time I think I have you figured out, you do something that changes my perspective entirely of what you _should_ be like. I'm used to hillbillies trying to kill me, not help me." She eyed him sharply. "You don't match."

The shadows underneath her eyes seemed to accentuate to an eerie point. "I should hate you, it's _easier_. Forgive and forget are not one of my stronger points. I still remember what you said during that storm, and a part of me still _despises_ you for it. But it's getting increasingly difficult to keep that hate after everything that's happened."

A cheerless scoff escaped her lips. Samara leaned over, her fingers ripping blades of grass with zeal.

"Out of all the people left, I end up stuck with the redneck with a heart of gold." She murmured with her eyes remote. "If there are gods out there like my grandparents believed, they do enjoy messing with my head."

The sharpness returned as her green eyes slid back to the hunter.

"_Someone_ once told me I should make peace with you, that I should _understand_ you." She tsked as if the very notion offended her. "I've been trying to figure out why you were so passionate on finding that girl. Does she represent some lost childhood to you? Do you see yourself in her?"

Daryl tried to say something, but Samara put her hand up, cutting him off.

"No!" She spat harshly. "Just listen to me. Just this _once_."

As the hunter calmed down, Samara continued.

"I _could_ understand you. But I wonder…Would it be a lost cause?" A weak smile crossed her lips, but it was filled with melancholy and doubts. "We two are volatile people. The majority of our conversations feel like riding a rollercoaster—It's always up and down and, sometimes, you just have to hold on tight so you don't fall off the edge. Whenever I think we can achieve some common ground, one of us fucks it up and we're back at square one. I swear we need a mediator every time we talk."

Samara sighed as she looked over the fields. The sun cast an orange and gold hue over them, engulfing them in a warm color. The cicadas could be heard in the distance, singing their evening songs.

But Samara's attention wasn't directed to nature's beauty, but to that one location where the hunter had almost died.

"You know what my first thought was when I saw your limp body dragged by Shane and Grimes? Back when Andrea shot you?" The question was spoken in such hushed tones, almost as if disclosing a secret.

"Remorse."

The word hung in the air like a plague.

"Now why would I feel that? I tried not to reflect on it back then, but now, after everything that's happened, I can't overlook it anymore."

She returned her attention to him with a small, weary upturn of her lips.

"Maybe it's because, with the exception of Rick, you are the only other person I have a connection to here, even if it's one born out of negative emotions. I've grown used to our arguments and mocking each other to the breaking point, and the thought that that would have ended that day…" She grimaced as her next words grated on her vocal cords. "I guess it left me a bit _sad_."

She could see the effects her confession had on the hunter. His eyes widened making him look comical, and his tick returned in full force as his teeth gnawed on his thumb.

But the whimsical aspect of their conversation took a U turn as Samara glowered at him suddenly.

"But then, you made me _angry_. Not the usual kind of anger I associate with you, but a true, soul crushing one." She bared her teeth at him in aggravation. "Instead of saving yourself as we left Hampton, you risked dying for someone who was already half dead. For someone you had no love for." And she couldn't understand that. "I hated you because you'd throw your life away for someone who didn't deserve your compassion…I hated you, because in _that_ moment, you were actually more human than _me_."

Her anger dissipated as she ran her hand again over her face. She shielded her gaze away as she didn't want to see his expression right now. She didn't want to know what emotion would be on it.

"That's the truth. You are _better_ than me." She snorted with revulsion. "_You? _A trailer trash hick who most likely had more run-ins with the law than I have fingers. I was a marshal and an Army pilot, and yet, you are the better of us?"

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Back then, I couldn't accept that, but now I do and a part of me loathes you for it." _Because it made me realize that I have become the very people I hated._

"I really did misunderstand you. I thought you were like me, but you're not. That was the only reason I brought you along to Hampton. Because I foolishly thought that if something happened, you would run…just like I was about to do when we got separated."

Daryl didn't even flinch at the revelation. At that time, only a part of him had expected the marshal to wait for him. The other had been not so optimistic.

"But, again, you proved me wrong." She sighed. "You have an annoying tendency of doing that. Probably why even now I can't understand you fully."

Samara brought her eyes up to Daryl's. There was something swimming in those lime greens that had the hunter shift awkwardly in his crouch.

"I would be_…disappointed_…if you died. This world needs more people like you, not like me. So, I guess what I'm saying is that after Sophia, after Hampton, after Grimes kicking me out…I'm just _tired_, Daryl. Of fighting, of hating. There's no point to it anymore."

She took a deep breath.

"I'm _sorry_. I'm sorry for judging you without giving you a chance. For treating you like the shit on the sole of my boot. You didn't deserve that."

There was a lightness to her mind, most likely due to the euphoria resulting from her actions. She had finally unburdened herself concerning Daryl Dixon.

"That's all I wanted to say. I don't expect you to say anything, and I don't think I want you to. It was awkward enough blurting out all those things, you opening up would make it worse." She rose to her feet using the cane. "I'll go back now and leave you to your arrows."

He took a step after her. "Samara—"

Whatever Daryl was about to say was interrupted by the loud sound of tires hitting gravel. Both Samara and Daryl looked over the field to see Shane's car speeding towards the house.

The lawmen were back.

And something was very _wrong_.

The car stopped, and out came Rick and Shane, all bloody and dirtied up. Instead of answering the questions thrown at them, they round up on the car and open the trunk.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me." Daryl growled as he threw the arrows in aggravation.

Lo and behold, Randall was still alive.

Samara started chuckling in stunned disbelief. Her fingers massaged her temple as the phantom pain in her abdomen was replaced with a splitting headache.

"I knew he couldn't do it."

* * *

After Randall had been placed—bound, blinded and gagged—back in his wooden cell, the Atlanta group along with Hershel's family and Samara, who sat down on the stairs a distance away from them, gathered to talk about the sudden turn in events.

Both lawmen were having their wounds treated by Hershel and Patricia.

"What the hell happened?" Andrea was the first to question them. She was not happy. "Why did you bring him back?"

"He knows Maggie." Rick hissed as Hershel dipped the alcohol filled cotton swab a tad too harshly on an open wound.

All eyes rounded up on Maggie who stood like a deer in the headlights.

"What? I've never seen him in my life!"

"Said he went to high school with you." Shane added as Patricia prodded his head wound.

Maggie stilled a moment as she tried to remember ever seeing someone like Randall in school, but her memory came back blank. "I don't recall ever meetin' him or heard of a guy named Randall."

"Well, it doesn't matter." The Kentucky sheriff said. "Tomorrow we'll find out if he's lyin' or not."

"How?" Dale asked with a small frown.

Rick was reluctant to say how. He already knew that he would have to rely on brute force as he interrogated the teen and he wasn't looking forward to it.

"I'll talk to him."

Daryl's proclamation surprised everyone, even the marshal as she eyed him strangely. _Why is he volunteering for something as dark as this?_

"Are you…sure?" While Rick had doubts, he also felt relief that he didn't have to do the dirty deed.

The hunter nodded without a second thought.

"Did Randall do this to you two?" Lori said as she clutched her husband's hand more tightly. She had remained by his side the whole time.

The sheriff shook his head after a slight pause. "The place where we took him had walkers there. We had to fight them off."

Samara scoffed softly. She wasn't fooled. Those bruises were a direct result of a fist fight, and she doubted walkers learned how to swing a punch recently. And since Randall didn't look like the fighter type, it zeroed down to two suspects. Two suspects with bruised knuckles.

"Then why didn't you throw him over to the walkers?" Samara voiced her thoughts with a hint of acid. "_If_ he knows Maggie wouldn't that have been the best solution?" The boy would have been out of their hair that way, no reason to bring him back here.

Rick narrowed his gaze on her. There was a bitter electric current passing between them. "We didn't exactly had time to think on anythin' other than survivin' the situation."

"Rick's right." The deputy hissed as Patricia had finished cleaning his wounds. "It was chaos there. There wasn't time to think."

Samara shook her head. It would have taken only a second to push the fool onto a walker and let the undead bastards take care of the rest.

"In the mornin', we'll know if Randall is lyin' or not."

"And if he is?" Dale shifted as he did not like the boy's chances of getting out of here alive.

"We'll see tomorrow." But Rick already knew what he was going to do.

As the others either scattered throughout the house or remained in small groups to talk, Daryl headed outside. As he passed the stairs he made eye contact with Samara. The woman gave no sign of life as she simply stared after him, an undecipherable look crossing over her features.

Daryl could still feel the razor-sharp gaze on his back even as he left the house.

* * *

_**Foot Note**_: I kinda skipped over Samara's recuperating days because other than laying around in bed and dying of boredom, she did nothing else. I don't think anyone would have wanted to read that.


	21. Our Vicious Nature

_**Note: **_I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm writing like crazy, which is probably great news for you guys. You get more reading material in short amounts of time.

Maybe it's because there are only a few chapters left of 'Ring of Fire' and then it's off to the 3rd story. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thrilled to start it.

So enjoy!

* * *

"Uh…no, no, no! Come on, man!"

Samara winced as the screams started.

Whatever Daryl was doing to Randall was most likely very painful.

The marshal _really_ didn't want to know. While she had become jaded to killing, she was opposed to torture. She never had the stomach for it, not even watching it in movies.

—It was _too_ messy.

She sat outside, leaning against the shed where Daryl was interrogating Randall. She had wanted to hear whatever information the boy had to give, but she did not want to be inside given her aversion. The others waited for Daryl by the camp, a good distance away from hearing the violence inside the shed.

The marshal even equipped herself with all her weapons safely tucked in their harnesses.

_Just to be safe._

Samara braced herself as another strong wind passed over the farm. It was cold enough that the marshal had to wear a zip-up hoodie over a long sleeve blouse. The sun hid behind dark grey clouds as a storm threatened to drench the residents of the farm in any second. Even the low rumble of thunder made itself present every few minutes.

"How many?!"

"T-Thirty guys."

"Where?"

"Uh...I don't know! I swear! We were never anyplace more than a night."

At first, Daryl hadn't wanted her anywhere near the shed. But Samara had her way of making him see her way, i.e. she glued herself to the shed with no intention of leaving, and then outright challenged him to move her himself.

She had really pissed him off and it seems some of that rage was being vented on Randall.

"Scoutin'? Plannin' on staying local?"

"I don't know. Th-they left me behind."

"Did you ever pick off a scab?"

_Oh my,_ Samara grimaced.

"Come on, man! I-I'm trying to cooperate."

"Start real slow at first. Sooner or later, you've just gotta rip it off."

Randall's scream turned from just pain to downright misery and despair.

"No! Please, whoever is outside, help me!"

Samara looked through the thin space between the shed's planks and saw Daryl leaning over the boy, holding his hunting knife threateningly. There was blood leaking out of Randall's still healing leg. Dixon had most likely cut him in the same place where he landed on the iron fence.

There was blood smeared on Randall's mouth and jaw. That, coupled with the sweat pouring down his face and the desperation directed at her made the marshal scowl.

_Disgusting_.

Daryl punched Randall before blocking his view of the woman outside. "Don't you talk to her. I'm the one here you have to worry."

Samara faced forward as the hunter's fist connected with Randall's jaw again.

"Okay, okay!" He whimpered as he spat a clump of blood. "Look man, they have weapons. Heavy stuff like automatics, but I didn't do anything!"

"Your boys shot at my boys, tried to take this farm." Daryl's aggressive tone heightened perilously with each word. "You just went along for the ride? You're tryin' to tell me you're innocent?"

"Yes!" Randall yelled. "These people took me in. A whole group of men and women, kids too. Just like you people. Thought I'd have a better chance with them, you know? But...We go out, scavenge. Just the men. One night, we found this little campsite. A man and his two teenage daughters…Real young. Real cute."

The chill in the air seemed to drop a few more degrees.

Samara looked back into the shed, horror barely under control.

"Their daddy had to watch while these guys…they…And they didn't even kill him afterwards. They just made him watch as his daughters…They just left him there."

In the deepest recesses of her person, the more violent part of the Native struggled to break free and take out one of her handguns and _beat_ the shit out of the outsider—until his skull cracked and his body bled dry.

"But—but I didn't touch those girls. You gotta believe me, man. I ain't like that."

Like her, Daryl seemed to snap as he started to brutally kick Randall until he did nothing but scream and cry.

That boy—

No. That _man_ deserved everything that was coming to him in full.

For the next fifteen minutes, Daryl did nothing but beat Randall until he was black and blue, and for once the marshal couldn't agree more. Samara straightened as Dixon stepped out of the shed. There was blood, both his and Randall's, on his knuckles and more splattered over the front of his long-sleeve shirt.

There were no words spoken between them.

Both trackers heard it, and now they both knew what kind of danger Randall represented.

They knew what had to be done. They just didn't know if it _will_ be done.

* * *

Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, Samara looked over the fields. Except for the group in the distance, she couldn't see anything else.

_Where the fuck is that dog?_

After Daryl had finished with Randall, Samara had walked the grounds to clear her head. As her mind rolled over so many possibilities and end-results of this Randall situation one random thought stood out.

—She hadn't seen Alistair since yesterday.

He had been practically glued to her since she got back from Hampton and from the moment he had followed Carl out of the stables, she had seen no trace of the dog. She was used to him either wandering the grounds or lazy around camp when he wasn't following her, so this discovery was disconcerting.

She had looked in the camp, around the camp, in the barn, the stables, even asked T-Dog—who was atop the RV—to use his binoculars to peruse over the entire area of the farm. Nothing.

So, if she couldn't find the dog, then she'll have to find the last one that probably saw him.

Carl.

A crunch of grass disturbed her from tracking down the small runt as the group's eldest approached her.

"Have you heard?" Dale stops a short distance from her.

"About Randall's group? Yeah." She returned her attention back to the fields. "Hey, have you seen Alistair? I can't find him anywhere."

"No, I haven't." His bushy brows furrowed. "And I meant Rick's decision."

"I'm not exactly privy to what you guys are up to anymore, Dale."

"We're gonna decide at sunset what we're gonna do with Randall."

A nod of understanding. "You mean if you'll kill him or not."

"Yes." Dale arranged his rifle over his shoulder as he spared a furtive glance back to the farm. "Hershel doesn't care what happens to the boy. He said he'll leave it to Rick, and Rick wants to kill him. But I know deep down Rick doesn't really _want_ to. He isn't like that. Rick's a man of principle."

Samara chuckled darkly.

"Your man of principle killed one of Randall's buddies in cold blood. I know because I helped." The smirk fell off her face as she thought about their standoff in the bar. She could vividly remember his eyes, how they bled into something new and fascinating. "In that moment, Rick was more _real_ than I have ever seen him. He was what you all really _need_ right now—A leader. Not some man twisted by morals and his people's opinions."

Dale was taken aback. "This isn't a dictatorship, Samara. We all have a say in this."

"And how's that working for you?" She snorted in distaste. "You all are so scattered, you can't even stop for one second and actually think up a solution." She stepped towards him. "Let me tell you this, Dale—this boy is a threat. No matter how you look at it, _that's_ the truth. He has to be dealt with permanently."

"Samara, please." Desperation crept in. Rick, Hershel, Andrea, Daryl and now Samara. He was losing fast. "We can't just kill the boy."

"Yes, we can. Shoot him in the head. It's that simple."

"We're still human!" Dale blurted out indignantly. Was there no hope? "We _need_ to keep all of us human. We can't just give up and spiral down into barbarism! If we do that we're no better than Randall's people."

"So what?" Samara shrugged indifferently. "Maybe a dose of ruthlessness is what you people actually need to get your heads out of your asses. Civilization's gone, Dale. Stop trying to imitate it."

The man shook his head, not willing to believe. "You don't mean that. I don't believe you would murder an innocent."

"From what I heard, he's not so innocent."

"He's a kid!"

The woman's glare was biting. "Who tortured, raped and killed two teenage girls while they forced the father to watch. Doesn't matter if he said he didn't join in, fact is he didn't stop it. Shit, he probably even got off on it."

_Another reason to let the fucker die._

Dale ran a frustrated hand over his face, before he tried again to sway the marshal to his side. "You were a U.S. Marshal before all this. You were a symbol of values and rules. There must be a part of you that still believes that everyone deserves a fair trial."

"Dale, as a U.S. Marshal, I mostly dealt with warrants, prisoner transportation, witness relocation and the fugitive task force." Samara shook her head in exasperation. _This man was relentless._ "You weren't paid to wonder if the people you transported or chased after were guilty or not. You just _did_. I left the judge, jury and executioner part to the courthouse."

"What about the benefit of the doubt?" This was his last stand. "When I first met you, I knew somethin' was _off_. You had this intense look about you that reminded me too much of Shane and, because of that, I was wary of you. But I gave you the benefit of the doubt, and you proved that while being _how_ you are, you are not a bad person. Why can't that be the same for Randall?"

"Because it _can't_, simple as that."

"Why?!"

"Gods, Dale. What do you want me to say?" Samara sighed in frustration as she massaged her brow. "You need a reason? Fine. How about this—I have a good eye for bad seeds, and I can tell you with my hand on my heart that Randall's a fucking weasel. Their kind will say _anything_ to get on your good side. They'll lie through their teeth to get out of any situation and, once out, they'll stab you in the back without a second thought." His kind was among the most annoying of fugitives. Always bargaining with her for their freedom. "That's why I'm pretty sure he participated in the rapes."

Dale's shoulders sagged as he realized that he had failed yet again.

The Native watched him with her poker face on._ Poor bastard. He wasn't going to win this one. _Dale had put too much stock in thinking that after everything that's happened, the group still had the same mentality as before the virus.

She patted him on the shoulder awkwardly. "My answer is no, Dale. Some people don't deserve the benefit of the doubt, and considering the present situation, you can't risk that with Randall."

_He's not someone you should waste your humanity on, old man._

"So, you're gonna vote to kill him." He said resigned.

"I'm not voting at all."

Dale's brows rose in surprise.

"Randall's not my problem." Samara said as she slowly walked off to find Carl. "Count me out, Dale."

* * *

"Aw, fuck!"

The Native spat as she leaned against the brick wall by Daryl's tent. She had been looking for Carl everywhere with no luck and made no progress whatsoever in finding Alistair.

This was her only lead as T-Dog pointed her towards the hunter's small camp. He had seen the boy walk towards it before being distracted by Dale and his vote.

The camp was empty of the hunter's presence. What tracks he had left told her he had been away for several hours.

Since Dixon wasn't present to see, Samara sat on the seat of his motorcycle to catch her breath—the damn scar was pulsating in discomfort, her back was killing her _and_ that damned old farmer wouldn't let her keep the painkillers with her. Something about her overusing them in Hampton.

Wiping her forehead, she looked over the small encampment. Dixon had chosen one hell of a spot to exile himself in. It was so far away from the farm that the mere thought of walking this much probably discouraged the others from making it unless it was urgent.

_Huh?_

Samara's eyes widened as she saw what else was hanging by the tree's branches except for dead squirrels and rabbits.

—The walker ears.

"Shit, he still has those?" Samara wobbled over to the offending appendages and lightly tapped them with a knuckle. "Strange hick…"

_Bark._

The marshal snapped to attention as a medium sized black and white fur-ball trotted towards her from the recesses of the forest.

_That little—_

"Where the fuck were you?!"

The dog whined, but not out of guilt. Something wasn't right. He was agitated as he kept prancing around her, whimpering and growling as his fur stood on end.

Samara searched around sharply, but there were no disturbances in the tall grass or anything to indicate intruders. With sweat pooling at her forehead, Samara unholstered her silenced gun.

"Show me. Find."

Alistair took off with Samara following as rapidly as her recovering body allowed her to, gun aimed forward and finger ready on the trigger.

Silently, she padded after the dog who seemed to lead her deeper into the forest. As they travelled, the distinct sound of roving water reached her ears. Alistair was leading her to a creek.

The dog stopped once he reached the top of the uphill. His head lowered as his spine arched in intense focus.

_Groan._

Samara felt a stone drop into her stomach.

As the marshal settled on the top, the first thing she noticed was the good view she had of the small valley complete with the walker that had caught the dog's attention.

"What the—?"

Her eyes narrowed as she was greeted with the sight of Carl Grimes facing a walker with a gun in hand.

She watched as the walker struggled to reach the boy but since it was knee deep in mud, it couldn't do much except flail its arms around hopelessly. A stroke of luck hit the walker as its constant agitation managed to loosen the earth and propel it forward. Carl yelled in panic as he fell onto his back, losing his grip on the handgun.

In complete terror, Carl kicked the walker to loosen its grip on his legs. He didn't want to die. He wanted to go back to his parents.

The moment he felt hands grip him under his arms was the moment he thought he was as good as dead.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Carl never would have thought that Samara's harsh voice would ever sound as heavenly as it did now.

Only his illusion was shattered as Samara grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, pulling him until he was face to face with a very pissed off marshal.

"I-I was…I—"

"Don't ever use a gun without a silencer. It's too much noise. Here."

Samara placed her silenced gun in Carl's shaky hands and turned him around so he could face the walker. Samara stood right behind him, forcing his fingers on the handle of the gun and one on the trigger.

"Try with this."

Blue eyes widened. "But—"

"Pull the trigger."

Carl watched in panic as the walker crawled towards him, hissing and snapping its teeth. He wanted out of the Native's hold, but the woman's grip on him was like steel. With each inch the corpse crawled forward, Carl backed up so far into Samara that he was practically molding against her. But not once did he try pressing on that trigger.

"What are you waiting for? It's getting closer."

"Stop!" Tears finally pooled at the corner of his eyes as he sobbed miserably. "I'm sorry. Just, please stop! Please…"

With a tsk, Samara took the gun out of the boy's hand and threw him behind her.

Decayed fingers ghosted over her cowboy boots only to be swiftly and ruthlessly parted from its owner with a swing of a machete. Samara spared no mercy as she drove the tip of her blade into the walker's skull.

Wiping her machete off with dead leaves, she slid it back into its place at her belt.

Carl watched as the marshal fished through the withering vegetation until she finally procured the stolen gun. Grim eyes then stared the tearful Carl down. As she approached, the boy tried to make himself as small as possible in fear of the woman's retaliation.

Leisurely, she crouched next to him, holding the gun up for inspection. Her cold green eyes traveled over it with slow precision, dragging it out slowly to further spook the boy.

—He deserved it.

"Samara—"

"Next time you want to run around with a gun…" Her eyes slid to him hawkishly. "Make sure you actually use it and not pussy out at the last second. Guns are not toys."

"I'm sorry. I-I thought I could do it." He sniffled pathetically. His body was still shaking like a baby chick in a storm.

"Where did you get this?"

"I took it from Daryl's bike." He rose to a sitting position, wiping the snot and tears on his sleeve. "I'm sorry, I won't do it again. Just please don't tell my parents."

"Stop sniveling. It's ugly." Samara grimaced as she saw the traces of boogers and tears on the material. "I'll take this back to Daryl. Come on, let's go."

Samara stood up and waited until the boy wiped the last teary traces to walk away. His legs still trembled as he gingerly rose to his feet and followed Samara. He threw one last glance at the walker—the thing lay as unmoved as Samara left it on the blanket of dead leaves.

As they traversed the forest, Carl kept sending the marshal furtive glances. He felt nervous because not too long ago, she and his dad had been friends. But considering their recent split, he didn't know what Samara will do now.

"Will you tell my dad?" He asked in a small voice.

"If I did it would be just what you deserve." The marshal barked without an ounce of pity. "Maybe he'll finally beat some sense into you. I understand that at your age rebelling seems like a good idea, but what you did was _stupid_." The abrupt stop almost made the boy run into her. The scowl marring her face would have ran Carl off if it hadn't been for the russet hand gripping his shoulder tightly, cutting off any chance of escape. "Do you realize that you could have hurt yourself or worse, jeopardize all of us? You know what happens when you shoot off a gun."

"But I didn't use it!"

"And yet you still waved it around like you were John fucking Wayne." Samara sighed as she crossed her arms. "What the hell possessed you to steal a gun, run off into the forest alone and confront a walker?"

Carl lowered his head despondently. With slow movements, he took his hat off letting it hang off his fingers. "Everyone treats me like I'm five years old. Like I don't understand what's going on. I'm _twelve_. I should be doin' more. I should be helpin'."

"And this is how you _help_ around?" The woman snorted. "Boy, you are messed up."

"I just thought that if I can shoot that walker then I can protect the others. Stop being so useless." Carl's fingers clenched on the brim of the hat. "I hate that I have to stay on the farm all the time. I just wanted…I just want people to _stop_ dying."

"You're not a god, Carl. Nobody can stop death." Samara sighed as she crouched low, so she could be eye to eye with the small Grimes. It seemed everything revolved around one person with this boy. "There was nothing we could have done about Sophia."

Carl tried to move past her only to have the marshal catch him by the arm and pull him back in place. He wasn't escaping her.

"I can see you're still hurting and I understand that. She was your _only_ friend, and now she's gone."

"Everyone acts like she never existed." The boy shook his head miserably. "After we buried her, Sophia vanished completely. Even her mom won't talk about her." Carl gives Samara a meaningful look. "She was _real_. She was _here_. She doesn't deserve this."

"Carl, they didn't forget her. Shit, even if they wanted to they couldn't. Adults just know how to better hide what they actually feel." Gods know, she did. "And trust me, Carol hasn't forgotten. She just has her own way of grieving."

The boy scoffed in disgust. "Carol thinks that Sophia is in Heaven now. What a load of horseshit."

"It's her daughter and if Carol wants to believe Sophia is with the angels then let her." She shook the boy slightly. "Who the hell are we to judge?"

_He better not have spoken shit to that woman or I will _truly_ beat him this time._

"Carl, after we buried Sophia…" She looked at him knowingly. "Did you give yourself time to grieve?"

Samara's temper rose as Carl started struggling in her hold.

"Aren't we over this?"

"Let me go!" Weak fingers tried to pry her hand away.

"You remember what happened last time you said that?"

Carl stopped. When Samara thought that he had finally gave up was when the boy stepped up his game.

—The first fist hit her right in the abdomen scar.

Samara inhaled a sharp breath as waves of pain spread out throughout her body. It felt like she was a toreador and she just lost the fight with the bull.

On reflex, the marshal let go of the boy as she doubled over. Surprisingly, Carl didn't run. He just stepped back and looked away as Samara struggled to stay upright. The Native groaned as she spat globes of saliva. The little bastard knew just where to hit her.

Samara gave the boy a warning look. If he ever hit her there again, she will do something she'll most likely regret later.

Gingerly, the marshal picked the tiny Grimes's hat from the ground as she straightened out.

A sheriff's hat.

A now useless piece of clothing.

She looked back at the boy. Carl was _really_ hurting. A mangled piece of organ was probably what was left of his heart in the wake of the barn shootout. Samara hadn't paid attention to him since he wasn't her concern and it seems his parents hadn't either.

_Those two really need to get their priorities straight._

She could still see the frenzy within the boy. How it ate him up. Right now, he appeared civil, but if she pushed him a little bit further—

"Do it again."

Carl's eyes widened. "What?"

"Hit me again. Hit me anywhere you want except for _here_." She pointed towards her injured abdomen.

"No." He took a step back. Was she crazy?

"No?" The Native snorted. "I guess I can see why that girl died. You were right, you can't do shit."

The color drained out of him. "Shut up."

"All alone out there, nothing to defend herself with, she must have been out of her mind with fear." Samara widened her eyes mockingly complete with a razor-sharp smile. "She probably thought you would save her. Appear like a knight in shining armor."

"Shut. Up." He bared his teeth.

"Make me. You can't, can you?" And the finisher—"Just like you couldn't save her as your daddy put a bullet in her pretty little head."

Carl snapped as he started throwing punches wildly. The marshal took the brunt of it with a stone face. They were lighter than the one he threw the first time so they didn't hurt that much.

As the boy's fists keep connecting with her, the tears rolled down harder. It seemed the dam was starting to finally crack as his whole body shook from the force of his choked sobs. The hits gradually slowed until they were mere faint thumps before eventually stopping all together.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…" Carl's shoulders sagged. His voice sounded positively miserable. "I want her back. I want my friend back."

Samara closed her eyes heavily before embracing him, one hand around him and the other on his head. She tried her best to comfort him.

_Gods know some of us need it._

Carl hid his face as fingers bunched up and twisted the material of her hoodie. "It's not fair. She didn't hurt anyone. Why did she have to die?"

"Nothing's fair in this world, boy. Sophia's death was just one thing that led to another. Nobody had wanted it, but it happened." She poked his head so he could look her in the eyes. There were traces of dried up tears running down his cheeks. "You need to learn to _accept_ that. That death is sometimes random. Doesn't matter if you're good or bad, it just happens."

"How?" He asked with a shaky voice as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

"That's something you have to figure out for yourself. I can't tell you how to grieve. We all have different ways to do it." Some hid it somewhere deep within, others exposed it for all the world to see. "But know this, acting out won't bring her back. Holding everything in until it eats you up will ultimately destroy you. Accept that she died and move on."

"I can't—" He shook his head. "I can't forget her."

"I'm not saying you should, quite the opposite. Keep her memory close, but don't let it drag you down."

_It'll kill you._

"I'm sorry, Carl. That you have to live in this fucked up world. That you have to go through all this garbage—so much death, so much brutality—something no kid should ever experience." Everything was messed up. "But keep your head straight and your hands steady, and you'll be alright."

Samara let the boy go. He didn't look any different than before, but it was a start. The marshal just hoped that Carl would follow her advice, even a little bit. It would keep him alive in the long run.

Extending her hand, she placed his father's hat back on his head.

"I'm not going to tell your parents. That's something _you _have to do." And if he was smart, he will. "Also, leave me out of this story. I don't need Lori trying to skin me alive."

That brought out a weak smile. "Yeah, my mom doesn't like you."

"I _know_, believe me." If her general disposition didn't clear it up, then their talk in the stables did.

Samara looked towards the sky. The sun was now taking on a golden and ginger hue as the light slipping through the tree crowns dimmed with each minute. This was enough of a sign to the marshal to return to camp. She had a meeting to attend to and, subsequently, get out of.

"Alistair, come—"

The woman stopped short as she noticed the clear absence of the mutt.

_Son of a bitch…He ran off again!_

"Carl, did you see which way Alistair went?"

"Alistair was here?" The surprise on him was genuine. He hadn't noticed the Collie. "I didn't see him."

"He was right up there. How could you not see him?"

The boy shrugged. He wasn't lying.

"Shit." Samara scowled as she realized that will have to chase the dog once again. But first, she needed to get to that meeting. Alistair could wait. He was alive and alright, he could wait another hour.

Carl trekked ahead of her as he sniffled and wiped his face every now and then with his sleeve. At first, Samara had wanted to be downright harsh with him—try to desist his difficult behavior with intimidation or a slap or two (she _really_ had wanted to after that first punch), but considering the emotional turmoil he was going through, the marshal had changed approaches. She didn't want to destroy the boy; she wanted him to grow stronger.

—Because he wasn't going to survive this world if he didn't grow a tougher hide.

As they left the forest, they come upon Daryl's camp with the hunter now present. He was skinning some squirrels when he spotted them. There was a curious frown about him as he wondered what the Indian was doing with Grimes' kid.

"Go." Samara pushed Carl further. "Get to the house."

Carl nodded as he left the two trackers, not even sparing Daryl a glance. He didn't want the hunter to see that he had been crying like a baby. Besides, he still felt guilty for taking his gun without asking.

With Carl now a distance away, Samara brought the man's gun out of the back of her pants. Daryl paused as he recognized the weapon.

"I think this belongs to you."

Daryl looked over his handgun then to the weapons on the marshal and then to the half-pint halfway to the farm.

"Kid stole it?" He asked already knowing the answer.

Samara nodded. "In the future, hide it better."

"The hell was he doin' with it?" Daryl asked as he tied his catch to one of the many branches.

"I found him trying to shoot a walker."

Daryl's gaze sharpens as he eyes the forest. _A walker here?_

"Found it down by the stream, stuck in the mud." There was a strange look about her as she gazed at his camp. "This is just my opinion, but you should move back with the group. It's not safe here so close to the forest. If something happened nobody would be able to get here on time."

Daryl didn't say anything as he pocketed his gun and picked up the leather vest discarded on the seat of his motorcycle. Samara bit her lip at the sight of angel wings on the back of his vest. That was just _cute_.

Next was the crossbow, and without a backward glance, he followed junior Grimes to the house.

The marshal picked up the pace as she followed the hunter within a humble distance. She still felt uncomfortable after yesterday and she wanted her physical contact with him limited, at least for a while. Enough for her to lick her wounded ego.

"What's your verdict on this Randall situation?"

"Don't matter either way." He shrugged. "Live or die, it's gonna break the group."

"And you're just waiting for the inevitable."

His glare was scathing.

"I wasn't accusing you." She sighed as she approached him. "This group has been struggling to stay together for a while now and I'm not sure if you can save yourselves anymore."

Now, it was her turn to shrug as she passed him. "All good things must come to an end, I guess."

"Samara?"

The woman stopped at the use of her full name. He didn't do that often, not unless he was being serious. It was always 'Indian' or 'woman' or 'squaw'.

As she faced him, Daryl awkwardly shifted as his eyes fleeted from hers to a point behind her. He had never been good with words, much less now as he had to speak to the same woman that only yesterday exposed her heart on a silver platter.

Her little speech had kept him awake for half the night much to his annoyance, but it did give him time to think on her proposition. Underneath all that talk, there was one single question the Indian wanted an answer for—Could they work together?

Daryl wasn't certain. The marshal had been right on one thing, the both of them were extremely unstable when put together. Almost like a powder keg ready to explode. Even in Hampton, alone as they had been, they still managed to snap at each other's heels to the point that Daryl needed a time-out. And the hunter knew that that won't change any time soon.

But, as hard as it was going to be, he was willing to try.

"If we're still here after you heal up, we're gonna head out huntin'."

Samara tilted her head in bewilderment. That was…_unexpected_.

"I'm gonna need help over the winter." Daryl kept his hands occupied with his crossbow so he wouldn't start biting his thumb in unease. "None of them know how to track for shit. You're the only one I can count on that won't screw it up."

—This was his way of accepting her apology and starting fresh.

Just as she was about to answer, Samara realized that she'll never get the chance since she'll be leaving the moment she recovered completely.

Daryl frowned as he watched the marshal continue on her way with no indication of what she thought of his proposition. The hunter cursed as he exposed himself only to be ignored.

His glare could burn holes in the back of her head.

* * *

As everyone gathered in the living room, Samara chose to remain on the fringes near the front door with the hunter on the opposite side. She wasn't going to remain long so she might as well be near the exit.

There's a solemn air in the room. Everyone was on edge as the clock ticked down to the deadline.

Nobody wanted to start the discussion, but everyone wanted to be over it.

"So, how do we do this? Just take a vote?" Glenn was the first to break the silence.

"Does it have to be unanimous?"

"How about majority rules?"

Andrea and Lori voiced out their questions as Rick stepped forward. "Well, let's just see where everybody stands. Then we can talk through the options."

Shane was the first to lay out his opinion. "Where I sit, there's only one way to move forward."

"Killing him, right?" Dale eyed the man in disgust before addressing everyone in the room. "I mean, why even bother to take a vote? It's clear which way the wind's blowin'."

"If people believe we should spare him, I wanna know." Rick intervened. He needed to know what everyone thought of Randall.

"Well, I can tell you it's just me and Glenn." As Dale said this, Glenn ducked his head in shame. The older man's face fell in disbelief as even the young Korean had jumped ship.

Glenn clutched his hat tightly as he tried to explain to his friend. It felt like betrayal and he hated it. "Look, I think you're pretty much right about everything all the time, but this—"

"They've got you scared!"

"He's not one of us." Glenn saw the threat in Randall and he didn't want that anywhere near Maggie or the group. "And we've lost too many people already."

Dale shook his head as he fell into disappointment. He was alone now.

"How about you?" He eyed Maggie. "Do you agree with this?"

Samara sighed in weariness as she listened to the group come up with alternatives to Randall's situation—from an asset, to giving him a chance to prove himself, to putting him to work. Neither of those choices sounded appealing as no one wanted to see Randall walk among them without an escort. Shane volunteered to guard him, but Rick shot it down as he didn't trust the boy not to try anything. Daryl voiced his opinion that keeping Randall around would just mean having one extra mouth to feed as winter was coming and they had no idea how tough it was going to be.

"Look, say we let him join us, right?" Shane interrupts the brainstorming. He didn't want to hear any more excuses. "Maybe he's helpful or maybe he's nice. We let our guard down and maybe he runs off, brings back his thirty men."

"So the answer is to kill him to prevent a crime that he may never even attempt?" Dale almost laughs in incredulity. "If we do this, we're sayin' there's no hope. Rule of law is dead. There is no civilization."

Samara shook her head as she picked herself off the wall. The vote was already cast. The majority wanted Randall gone, one way or the other, and no one felt particularly compassionate to Dale's plight. There was nothing here for her to do. It was time to go.

Daryl watched as the marshal walked past him towards the door. Rick also noticed from the corner of his eye and frowned at her.

"We ain't done." His declaration brought attention to the woman.

"I've already heard Dale's song and dance and I'm not going to sit here and listen to it again."

"What's your vote then?"

Lori got out of the woman's way as she reached for the door handle. With her hand ready to open the exit road, Samara eyed the sheriff keenly. "I have no vote because whatever the result is, you guys are just going to find some way to botch it up and then we're back at square one again. And again. And again. And again."

"_You_ brought him here." She pointed a russet finger at Grimes. "So, do what you have to do, but count me out."

With that, she left the group to their problems and went off to find Alistair before his tracks went cold.

* * *

"Alistair!"

"Alistair, where the fuck are you?"

Samara cursed as the tracks in the forest had led her nowhere. She lost them at the stream as Alistair probably walked through it and she hadn't found anything on the other side.

Which left her, unfortunately, with her ass hanging in the wind.

Night had fallen and Samara was out in the fields with a flashlight looking for the mutt. There was barely any natural light to guide her as the moon chose to hide behind thick clouds.

As the minutes passed, her concern grew. Alistair had only crossed her path to warn her of the walker. If he disappeared again it only meant that he caught another scent.

If one walker managed to get this close to the farm, others probably did too.

And that _terrified_ her.

Two weeks or more had passed since the walkers in the barn, giving them enough time to close in on the sound. Or maybe Samara was simply jumping to conclusions. Walkers had wandered around the area of the farm even before they shot the barn. Maybe this was just a straggler, and maybe Alistair just found an animal to follow and stumbled on Carl by accident and then just went back to chasing that animal, or whatever caught his attention these days.

But the pessimistic side of her was screaming that the dog was onto something _bad_. And she needed to find him fast.

—A scream tore through the silence of the night.

Samara's heart stopped.

A man's scream. One born out of horror and fear.

The marshal took out her silenced gun as she eyed the direction where the sound came from. It was somewhere to her left and not very far. She was outside the fenced area of the farm with the back of barn and house just in sight. With her free hand she lit up the space around her, but except for grass and bushes she couldn't see anything.

With nibble feet, she followed the sounds using the flashlight as a beacon.

She could hear struggling as the man yelled again, and it seemed even the camp heard it as dots of light bounced around in search of the source of the scream.

"Dale!"

_Gods…That was Dale?_

Then to Samara's alarm, the familiar barking and growling of a Border Collie joined in the struggle as did the groan and hiss of a living corpse.

"Shit!"

Her jog turned into a full time run as she could now see three dark shapes fighting in the distance. One animal and two human. The animal was atop one human, making jerky movements—almost like he was biting something and twisting it both sides.

Samara didn't even pay attention to her injuries as they flared up painfully. The only thing she could do was keep the light as straight as possible and hope that—_please Gods no_—Alistair and Dale weren't as good as dead.

And not even a second later did Samara's fear come true.

A sudden pained howl came from Alistair.

"Alistair!"

_Bang._

A loud gunshot that could only be Dale's two-barreled shotgun resounded, freezing the marshal in her run. She could literally feel her heart in her throat, ready to leap out and splatter all over the ground in pieces.

With shaky hands she illuminated the area in front of her—Dale was on his knees, shaken and wild eyed, with his shotgun pointed forward. There was blood on his shirt and his famous bucket hat was gone. The light followed Dale's aim to a downed walker and there, just a short distance away, Alistair—unmoving and laid down on his side.

"No!"

Samara ran as she prayed. Prayed to all her grandmother's gods for it to not be true.

_The dog can't be dead._

As she reached the walker, she could see a large bloodied hole in the back of its head courtesy of Dale's shotgun. Passing it, she slowed just a few feet from the black and white furball. She could hear him whine lowly as he wheezed for oxygen. When the light hit his body, Samara's mask broke miserably.

—There was an open wound on his side, right at his stomach.

Organs were exposed to the night air with blood and viscous yellow-green liquid pouring out in rivulets. There was barely anything holding the intestines from spilling out.

"Fuck…Fuck!"

Samara fell to her knees next to the dog. A sob threatened to escape her tightly pressed lips as slim fingers ghosted over the fur, afraid to even touch Alistair least he breaks further into pieces.

_Why…Why did this happen?_

* * *

"Dale!"

Daryl was the first of the group to reach the older man. The others still had some way to go as he could still see their flashlights leap up and down as they ran.

He first checked on the walker with a small pocket flashlight to be sure it was as dead as it seemed. A kick was delivered to its side but it didn't move, not even a peep. Daryl shifted his crossbow back over his shoulder as he zeroed down on Dale. The man was still in the same position as the one he found him in—on his knees with the rifle in his hands.

The hunter crouched next to the man to check for any injuries as Dale remained frozen solid.

"You bit?!" The hunter breathed out heavily as adrenaline still ran rampant through him.

"N-No…" Dale managed to choke out. He just had a close brush with death and lived to tell the tale. "I—No, I w-wasn't…"

He would have if it hadn't been for…

"Alistair."

Daryl frowned. _The mutt's here?_

He flashed the small light around for the dog, but the darkness made it hard to see anything. But…now that he thought about it, he had heard a woman screaming the dog's name.

Samara.

Pulling himself to his feet, he called out her name. The only answer he got was a low canine whine. Redirecting the light, he came upon the back of a person bended over itself a few feet away from the walker. The body was rocking gently, mumbling something to the whining animal in hushed tones.

Daryl knew, without even seeing, that the person was Samara and the whining animal, Alistair.

"He…saved me…"

Daryl turned back just in time to see the older man drop his shotgun so he could vomit on the side.

"Dale! Christ, were you bit?" Grimes finally arrived with the others. With frenzied movements, he turned the older man to confirm to himself that he was alright.

Dale waved him off as he heaved out the content of his stomach further.

The hunter watched as the others either fussed over Dale or breathed out in relief as they were spared a catastrophe, before turning and stepping closely to the rocking form of the marshal.

He couldn't hear what she was whispering, but Daryl knew that the dog was dying. He's heard wounded animals before and he could tell the difference between treatable injury and on-the-way-to-the-grave injury.

"That bastard tore his fucking stomach open." The Native croaked as she didn't even turn to see who was approaching her.

Never had Daryl heard the marshal so raw with emotion that she was practically choking on it. It left him feeling useless as he stood there. The marshal also must have felt useless as the dog's life slipped from her grasp.

It seemed that the Native's voice traveled past him as it reached Rick's ears. The man stepped forward with a camp lantern in hand, illuminating the marshal's back as she sat with the dog held in her lap.

"Hershel! Get over here!" Rick shouted as he watched the marshal's erratic movements with worry.

Hershel reached the marshal's side, but once he saw the dog he shook his head gravely. There was nothing he could do. The wound was too deep and too wide.

"He's not going to make it…is he?"

"I'm sorry." The farmer touched Samara's shoulder empathically and, for once, the Native didn't rebuke the physical comfort.

Hershel stepped away as there was nothing he could do for the woman or the dog, and focused on the man that had stopped vomiting and was currently shaking on his behind.

"Shhh…It's alright." Daryl could hear Samara say softly as the dog began choking in his own blood. "Everything's going to be alright."

They sounded horrible, the noises the dog was making. Daryl could see Alistair's legs move stiffly and unsteadily, almost as if experiencing a seizure.

"Shhh, it's going to end soon." Her voice cracked. "I'm going to make it better."

The hunter's eyes widened as without warning Samara's arms tightened around the dog's neck.

_Snap_.

Alistair goes limp.

Silence reigned over the field.

The others watched in stupefaction as Samara picked herself up and without a word, walked past them with the dog in her arms. The women averted their eyes and covered their mouths in dismay as they saw the horrific mess the dog was in.

As Samara walked past the seated Dale, he caught the material of her jeans as he tried to unsteadily speak. "Samara, I—"

"Let go."

Her voice was so hollow that it made the hunter cringe.

Dale did as she asked, and let the woman continue on her way towards the house.

The sheriff next to him cursed lowly as he raked his hand through his hair. His blue eyes followed the woman until she was lost into the darkness.

"Shouldn't someone go with her?" Glenn asked as he felt his eyes sting from the sight of the dog's state.

"No. Put yourself in her shoes, would you like it if a bunch of people hounded you as you're grievin'?" Daryl answered grimly as he and Andrea helped Dale to his feet.

"Leave her be for now." Carol spoke up, dissuading Glenn from persuading the others to reach to the Native.

Rick stepped forward to address his people. "Everyone, get back to the farm."

"Rick, your people can sleep inside tonight." Hershel told him considerately. It was the least he could do.

The sheriff nodded as he directed everyone back to the farm. T-Dog and Glenn helped Dale walk back as Andrea followed like a second shadow. Lori took hold of her son as she moved along with the others. Daryl stood in the back along with Rick and, every now and then, he would look behind for signs of other intruders.

"Daryl."

The hunter gave the sheriff half his attention.

"Walk the fenced area in case there are more walkers around. Take T-Dog with you."

Daryl nodded absentmindedly as his pale blue gaze got sidetracked by the darkened form of the marshal as she disappeared somewhere inside the barn.

* * *

Rick entered the darkened barn with a camp lantern in hand. The clouds have parted long enough for there to be a limited vision. There were beams of light illuminating parts of the barn. The sheriff's muscles tensed slightly as he found nothing to indicate someone was inside, but he knew Samara was there, even if she hid in the shadows.

"Is Dale alright?"

Her voice jolted him as it seemed to come from everywhere in the dark. Stepping deeper into the barn, Rick found her near the back leaning against one of the wooden beams as her eyes remained glued to a small, furry body placed on a haystack. The marshal was breathing heavily as she held her stomach.

"Yeah, he's just in shock. Hershel's givin' him some sedatives."

"That's good." She said without much care or emotion.

Grimes stopped short from them as he eyed the remains of the poor dog. He averted his gaze as the sight was becoming too gruesome.

"Samara, I'm _sorry_."

"He never did that before. Attack walkers, I mean." Rick hated as no light seemed to reach her eyes. They looked more lifeless than a doll's. "He just ran around distracting them, confusing them. He was _scared_ of them. He never…"

"He was protectin' us. The people he cared about."

She shrugged half-heartedly. "I guess…"

The marshal lapsed into silence as she raised her hands, palms up. They were covered in blood and the light from the lantern made the untouched gold of her wedding band shine brightly.

They didn't shake thought. They were as steady as when she held a gun. Most people, after experiencing an intense trauma, lapsed into jitteriness. They can't stop themselves from mumbling or shaking, but Samara suffered from neither.

Rick frowned as the marshal seemed fascinated with her crimson drenched hands, examining every inch with care and a steady gaze. He didn't like it one bit.

"Come in the house." Rick cautiously reached for her. "There ain't nothin' you can do right now."

"No!" The Native snapped the moment Rick's fingers grazed her arm. She pulled away from him, wild eyed. "Don't touch me!"

Rick took a few steps back, his arms raised in a peaceful gesture. As calm as she appeared on the outside, it seemed that there was a raging thunderstorm just underneath, waiting for someone to give her the excuse to let it out and wreak havoc.

The woman hissed as the sudden movement doubled the throbbing in her body. She hadn't taken her nightly painkiller and her body reacted to it in full force.

The sheriff waited until the woman calmed down enough for him to try and reason with her. She needed to return inside.

"You can't stay out here, Samara. Not after what happened."

She shook her head. "I have to bury him."

"It's pitch black outside." His frown deepened. "We'll do it in the morning. I promise you."

Pale green eyes moved to him calculatingly before returning to the dog.

"Alright, but I'm staying here." The woman sat down gingerly on the haystack next to the dog. She looked exhausted as the shadows underneath her eyes thickened.

"Samara, listen to me. There's nothing you can do for Alistair." Rick tried to persuade her further. "You're in pain, don't try to hide it. You need to let your body rest."

The marshal shook her head vehemently. "This pain is the only thing keeping me grounded right now. I _need_ it." The empty look she gave him broke his heart little by little. "I don't want to deal with anyone right now. I don't want to see their pitying faces. I want to be _alone_."

She eyed him pleadingly.

"Can you do that?"

Rick nodded. This was what she had wanted before when she left for Hampton. At that time, she accused him that he wouldn't have let her even if she had asked nicely. She was right, but in this moment…

"Take as much time as you need."

Samara leaned back in relief, her hand clutching her stomach. She returned to her vigil over Alistair with the same dead expression.

The sheriff left the barn with a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

_**Foot Note:**_ Initially, I had wanted to kill Alistair during the horde attack on the farm but it seemed more fitting here as it gives me a way to keep Dale alive. And it's a better alternative than having Samara save Dale like so many OC's do.

Someone's gotta die for the other to live. That's how it is.

Ah…Samara can't catch a break, can she? It's just one after another.

I think I'm turning into an emotional masochist.


	22. The Clock is Ticking

Samara woke up with a gasp.

She hunched over herself as she stared at her shaking hands. The marshal could feel the cold dampness stick her blouse to her skin.

–The nightmare had been that bad.

This time it had been Alistair plaguing her dream. At first she had thought it would be a good one, one in remembrance of the dog, but it soon deteriorated into Hell. She had dreamt that she was back in the house, sleeping in her bed when she woke up to Alistair sitting right next to her. The dog seemed fine, no blood or injuries on his body. The only thing that made her worry was the intense stare the dog was giving her. Unwavering and blank.

At that time, Samara hadn't given in much thought. She had simply extended her arm to pet his head.

The marshal's expression contorted to horror as sharp teeth sank into her hand without warning. From a sweet sheep herder, Alistair transformed into a vicious, slobbering, rabid dog with glowing red eyes. He ripped and shredded the meat off her bones and Samara screamed and screamed but no sound came out. Her fists hit against the demonic Alistair but they didn't seem to faze him. In fact, they urged him to bite deeper until teeth broke through bone.

On the verge of a mental breakdown caused by hysterics, Alistair finally let go of her hand and just when Samara thought it was over, Alistair lunged for her face.

—That's when Samara finally broke the veil of unconsciousness.

With a groan, she massages the tense muscles in her face. This was the fifth nightmare she had in the last two weeks after a long absence. They seemed to be returning to their daily routine of messing with her mind.

Rising to her feet, the marshal grimaced as her whole body felt sore. True to his words, the sheriff had left her be. She had thought that once she fell asleep he would sneak in and carry her back into the house, but for once he had listened to her demands. Thinking on it now, it might not have been the best of ideas since the mornings were becoming increasingly cold and Samara was only wearing a hoodie and blouse.

Looking through the barn's small roof window, she could see the color of sunrise.

—This was the perfect time to bury the dog.

Samara approached the small corpse. Sadness threatened to render her useless again, but the Native hardened her heart and picked the remains of the animal with clinical hands.

The first rays of light blinded her for a few seconds. The fields were empty of any presences, only an autumn breeze spoiled the stillness. There was still dew clinging to the overgrown blades of grass and Samara could feel the inside of her boots becoming clammy.

She needed a shovel first and for that, she had to reach the shed.

Opening the door, she was welcomed to the sight of Randall suspended by his arms from a beam above, blindfolded and gagged. Samara didn't even spare him a second glance as she went in search for the shovel. The disturbances she was producing woke up the boy and he began struggling.

As Samara picked up the farming tool, she had wanted to walk past the boy and be done, but something stopped her. With callousness, she ripped the blindfold off.

The boy spoke into the gag desperately, but Samara stopped him.

"Do you know who I am?"

Randall scrunched his brow in a bit of a daze.

"I'm the one that knocked you out in the car."

Her voice was strangely empty even to her ears.

"I'm also the woman that made you fall off the roof. I actually intended to shoot you in the head, but it was dark and I'm not that good of a sniper, so I missed."

The boy's brow deepened further with anger and hopelessness.

"I just wanted you to know that. That _that_ leg is my doing and if I had just pushed a little bit more, you would have remained in that town and reinvented yourself in an all-you-can-eat buffet. So, in a way, I saved you but damned you at the same time. Poetic, isn't it?"

Samara placed the blindfold back over his eyes and left the shed and the renewed struggling Randall behind.

She didn't understand why she told him that, but at the moment she didn't care. Maybe she just wanted to make someone as miserable as she felt right now.

Passing the house, she could see T-Dog sitting in one of the rocking chairs, snuggled in a blanket with a wooden bat in his lap. Samara didn't stop to chat.

Reaching the graves, Samara placed the dog on the wet grass and speared the tip of the shovel into the ground. With one foot on the spade, the marshal gripped the pommel more tightly. One night without painkillers coupled with the extra strain she placed on her body in the last 12 hours was pushing her to her limit.

Biting her inner cheek, she started digging.

Not even two piles of dirt in, T-Dog approached her with hurried steps.

"Hey…" He stopped next to her. "Do you need help?"

"No."

A strong hand griped the pommel, stopping her from straining herself further. "Come on, you're still recovering. I can dig it up for you."

Samara paused and with great reluctance, passed him the tool. He was right and if she continued digging, she would pass out from the pain. She could already taste blood in her mouth.

T-Dog took the shovel and began digging the hole, no words exchanged between them. Samara turned her head from him and spat the accumulated blood. She didn't know if it was from biting her cheek or internal bleeding.

It didn't take long for T-Dog to finish. The grave wasn't big, just enough for the dog to fit it. T-Dog speared the shovel into the ground and motioned to pick Alistair up only to be stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Not yet. I need to…"

The man nodded in understanding. "I get it. Take your time."

T-Dog walks a distance away, giving the marshal privacy. With a hiss, Samara managed to lower herself into a crossed legged position next to the body, not even caring that the grass was wetting her pants.

She was supposed to say something, right? That was how it usually went. The last words spoken to the deceased, usually praises for a good life led.

Samara sighed. She hated funerals.

_"I'm sorry we had to part like this. You didn't deserve such a death." _The language of her people flowed over her tongue as she wanted complete privacy. _"I always said that I would kill you myself one day, but…I never thought that I would _actually_ do it."_ The marshal pulled at the grass underneath her, avoiding looking at the body. _"You were always by my side, even when I rejected you. Pushed you away because you annoyed me with your neediness and affection, but…I guess we were both so lonely that we attached ourselves to the first living thing that crossed our path. Didn't matter how wrong we were for each other."_ Desponded eyes finally settled on the still canine. _"I did give a damn, you know? You grew on me like moss on a rock. But all things must come to an end eventually, don't they?"_

Russet fingers threaded through soft fur. _"You were a good boy. Saved my ass time and time again. I should have been nicer to you and I wasn't. I'm _sorry_ for that. You deserved better."_

Samara felt like laughing. Here she was talking to Alistair like he had been more than just a dog. Giving him a eulogy and apologizing to him like he had been human. But in a way, he had been. He was the friend she had needed during those long stretches of road.

Ironically, now at the end she realized that she had cared for him more than she would have before the virus.

A _dog_…something she wouldn't have been caught dead with.

_"You rest now, Alistair. Join your family in the afterlife. They probably missed you."_ Her voice lowered to a soft murmur. _"I know _you_ did."_

Samara picked Alistair up and lowered him into the hole. T-Dog took that as a hint to approach and start filling it up. With each mound of earth, less and less of Alistair was seen until Samara lost sight of him entirely.

It was _done_.

Alistair now joined the ranks of the dead. One of those lucky enough to escape this Hell and finally rest.

T-Dog leaned against the shovel as he lowered his head and recited a silent prayer.

"T-Dog, in that book of yours…Do dogs really go to Heaven?" She asked once the man finished with his words.

"I like to believe so." T-Dog mused whimsically. "The Bible has never been clear on that part, but it does say animals will exist in the Kingdom of Heaven. After all, God's hand is in the life of every creature. So, I guess it all comes down to what _you_ believe. If you think Alistair is with God then he is."

Samara frowned. "I never said that…"

"Is there an afterlife in your religion?"

"Not exactly." Samara massaged the kinks out of the back of her neck. She had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position. "We had a pretty simplistic view. It didn't matter how you lived your life, when you died the evil remained in your body as your soul passed on. Good or bad were not so black and white to us. We focused more on the present. When you lived, you lived and when you died, you died."

"What about animals?"

The Native scoffed. "I would need a whole day to explain all the different symbols each animal represented, but I can tell you that dogs were believed to be the ones to navigate the soul once it passed away."

"Maybe Alistair will be the one guiding you once you pass over." T-Dog gave her a gentle smile.

Samara chuckled as she envisioned it. "Little bastard would just get me lost."

Her amusement died down as she returned to her previous solemn mood. "T-Dog, I don't believe in this fantastical stuff. I only know this much because my grandparents practically drilled their Navajo belief into my head when I was a kid. I grew out of it when I realized fairy tales didn't exist."

Her deep eyes settled back on the grave.

"I just like the thought of it, that's all." She shook her head as she ran her fingers over her dirty hair. She wanted these thoughts away. "Ugh, forget it. I don't know why I asked."

"Everyone needs reassurance once in a while." A warm hand settled on her shoulder in consolation. "Even hard cases like you."

The woman nodded as she hid her face from him. Tears threatened to leak out and she didn't want him to see her in that state. She didn't want to cry. Not for anybody.

"I think I'm going to sit here for a while."

T-Dog took a step back, mindful for the need for privacy. "I'll be on the RV if you need anything."

"T-Dog!" Samara called after him. When he paused in his step, the marshal gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

The man nodded with a genuine smile before continuing on his way.

The sun had risen fully as the birds started singing their daily cry. Soon, the others would wake up and, hopefully, have half a mind to not approach her.

This stillness was killing her. When it got too quiet she could hear every single thought passing through her mind and her head was not a good place to be in right now.

Samara lowered herself back down and sat among the solemnity of the graves.

* * *

Sometime during her meditative mood, the others had woken up and gathered outside to discuss something important by the looks of it. Samara had paid no attention to them as she contemplated her future.

She knew what her next step was. She had known the moment Alistair had died.

—Then why was she prolonging it?

Samara didn't even realize how much time passed when Shane approached her.

An ugly scowl contorted her features. "You're the last person I want to talk to right now."

"Calm down, girl. I'm not gonna start anythin'." Shane's gaze turned to the fresh grave. "Sorry about your dog."

"What do you want?" Whatever Shane was here for she wanted him to be done with it. Right now, she had little to no patience.

"Rick changed his mind." Shane spat revoltingly as he rubbed his head. "He's gonna take Randall away tomorrow. Shit, I knew he would back out. He ain't got what it takes to protect this group."

"But you do?"

"You _know_ I do. I'll do anythin' it takes to keep us safe."

Yes, Samara knew what the man was capable of. Witnessed it herself.

"You do what you think you have to, Shane." Samara said half-heartedly. She didn't really care what the man did as long as he did it away from her.

"Things need to change around here." His fuming gaze settled on the sheriff. "Everythin' that's happened was because Rick chose wrong, because he chose with his heart instead of his head. I ain't gonna let that happen anymore."

Some life finally sparked in the marshal as she eyed the man warily. "You want to lead this group, Shane?"

"Maybe it's time I did." There was something barely contained in the man's eyes. Something that set the marshal on edge. "You've seen it yourself. The results of Rick's decisions." Shane shook his head as he seemed to contemplate something before determination gripped him. "I love that man. He's my brother, but it's time he stepped down."

"…Why are you telling me this?"

Shane crouched beside her and it took a good portion of Samara's will not to back away.

"Because I need someone with a cool head. Someone that won't be swayed by feelings so easily. I know you don't like me. Hell, I don't like you either. But that doesn't mean we can't work together. We think alike, we know that sometimes we have to get our hands dirty for the better."

_Huh, déjà vu…_

"I think we already had this discussion a few weeks ago. My answer hasn't changed since then."

Irritation flared before his eyes settled into a more neutral tone. "Just help me with Randall. You know as well as I do that he can't live, much less leave this farm."

Samara sighed in exhaustion. _These people…_

"No, Shane. I'm not helping you kill Randall." The marshal turned her attention back towards the grave. Any other time she would have agreed to do it, for her own safety at least. But now… "Just let it be. If Rick wants to set him free then let him."

That set off a chain reaction in Shane—from surprise to shock to anger to frustrated incredulity.

"The hell is wrong with you? You're the last person that would give that boy a pardon." He spat in revulsion as he grabbed her shoulder in attempt to bring her to her feet. "You know what will happen if his group—"

"I know! I know, goddammit!" Samara snapped as she pushed the bruising hand away. "I'm just tired of this shit! This constant back and forth between all of us! I don't want this anymore. I'm fed up."

"What? Did that dog dyin' make you lose your fangs?"

A treacherous silence settled.

"…Leave." Samara croaked between gritted teeth. "Now."

Realizing that again he spoke without thinking first, Shane tried steering their talk back to a more neutral ground. "Samara—"

"Now! "

Her shout had been so unexpected that Shane stepped back out of reflex. Even the others heard it as they stopped what they were doing and watched the exchange with a common weariness.

Shane stepped back. There wasn't anything else he could say, not with the way her eyes glimmered madly. The Native was shutting off, to him and to everyone else around.

Shane walked away. There was nothing he could get out of Samara anymore.

She had lost her will to bark or bite.

Samara massaged the bridge of her nose, carefully constructing her walls back in place. She felt unhinged. _Mad_.

She wasn't herself. There were too many cracks and all that remained precious to her—her sanity, her emotional stability—was seeping out. And then this idiot comes and drives an ice-pick into those cracks, destroying them further.

She needed to get out.

Out and away to safety.

* * *

Samara stepped inside the house with a sense of purpose. She needed to find Hershel.

As she walked towards the farm, some of the others had tried to talk to her but she simply brushed by them without a word. Samara didn't even remember if they said anything and, frankly, she didn't care.

The Native eventually found the farmer with Dale sitting at the kitchen table. A grimace threatened to show itself as her eyes settled on the bucket-hat wearing man. She didn't want to speak with him; she didn't want his sympathies or his apologies.

Dale rose up once he saw the marshal, an aura of pure sadness directed at her. Samara could practically taste it on her tongue and she felt like vomiting.

"Samara, I'm so sorry—"

"Can we talk in private?" The woman cut him off sharply as she focused on Hershel. She didn't want to hear it.

The old farmer nodded before redirecting his gaze. "I'll check your tension again tonight. I don't like that it's still a bit too high."

Dale lowered his gaze as he walked past the marshal. Her rebuke had been clear to him—she was angry with him for being the cause of her dog's death.

"Dale." He heard the Native rasp from behind gritted teeth. She paused awkwardly as she seemed to find the right words. "It's…_good_ that you're alive."

The old man left the house not really convinced of her words, but he didn't blame her. Her friend was dead and it was, unintentionally, because of him.

Samara sat at the table once she heard the door close behind Dale. Neither took the first step in speaking—Hershel because he wasn't the one that asked for a private talk, and Samara because she was afraid. Afraid that he would say no.

"What is it that you want?" Hershel took it on himself as he saw the conflict in the marshal and spared her the difficulty.

"I want…" Samara placed her hands, palms down on the wooden table and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. What was wrong with her? "I _need _painkillers."

"You don't need to ask for 'em."

"No, I mean—" Her tongue peeked out to wet her dry lips. "I need painkillers to last me a week, at the least."

Pause.

Hershel narrowed his eyes apprehensively. "Where are you goin'?"

"Away." Samara cracked her knuckles in nervousness. She looked him dead in the eye, no trace of humor, just dead solemnity. "I'm asking this as a favor. One that I _can't_ pay back. Except for clothes and weapons I have nothing to offer you in return."

Hershel said nothing as he simply stared at the marshal with an unreadable expression.

Samara's anxiety increased as she let out a nervous titter. "Do I have to beg for them?"

"No, you can take 'em." Hershel leaned over the table as he now understood the gravity of what the marshal was saying. "I'm just wonderin' if you realize what you're about to do."

The marshal inspected her hands. They were boney from her poor diet and her fingernails looked awful, chipped and with dirt underneath. It was _disgusting_.

Steely olive eyes connected with serene faded blue.

"I do."

* * *

Rick stared over the map as he and Daryl marked down the fastest way to get to Randall's dumping ground. After the events of last night, the sheriff took it as a sign to let the boy live. One of his people almost died over this life and death decision, and it wasn't worth it anymore.

Maybe this was karma biting him in the ass.

But come what may, they _will_ make it through.

Their concentration broke as familiar cherry brown boots came into view. Rick straightened as Samara stopped a short distance from them. He had seen her sitting alone by the graves this morning and restrained himself from disturbing her. Rick remembered how she had been last night and he was concerned for her mental health. Her eyes had been dead—dead just like back at the motel when she thought she lost her precious photos. It had sent a jolt of dread through him as he knew her head was nowhere near good and the possible outcomes of those negative emotions.

Her outburst a few hours ago with Shane was proof of that. Imperious fury was the only thing that could make the marshal raise her voice to a shout, and Rick was sure that was only half of the reason she yelled. Shane could be exasperatingly persistent and whatever he said must have hit a nerve.

"You feelin' alright?"

"Yeah, my head is clear now." She half-curiously eyed the piece of paper on the hood of his car. "What's with the map?"

"We're takin' Randall away tomorrow." Daryl answered as readied himself to depart. His discussion with Rick was over as they have chosen a location even before the Indian interrupted them.

"You aren't killing him anymore."

"Dale was right." Rick shook his head as he placed his hands on his hips. "It ain't my right to decide who lives and who dies."

Both men had expected a retort, even a small snip, but nothing came from the marshal. She remained numb as she gazed at the map uninterestingly.

"I need to talk to you about something." Those jaded eyes switched to the sheriff. "In private."

Daryl understood the hint as he walked away from them.

"We'll talk later." Rick called after him before focusing all his attention on the marshal. Something was wrong, and it wasn't about the dog.

Samara breathed in deeply as she shuffled her feet in place making the sheriff even more wary. The woman paused momentarily with a faraway look before shaking whatever thoughts plagued her and refocusing back on the man in front of her.

"I just want to tell you now so you won't be surprised tomorrow. I owe you at least this much courtesy." She looked him dead in the eye. "I'm _leaving_."

A skip.

Rick's breath hitched.

"It's not a spur of the moment thing. I've been thinking about it ever since I got back from Hampton."

"Why now?" The sheriff found his voice as he let go of the gasp of air he had been holding.

"It's not safe here anymore, Grimes. Two walkers in one day after two weeks of nothing is a sign to get out of dodge, and I'm not going to ignore it this time." The woman scoffed softly. "Truthfully, I should have left after the barn shootout. I should have just packed my things and never looked back, but sentimentality kept me here. But..." Again that faraway look took over. "…Alistair is dead, your group is falling apart and _we_ are where we are."

"There's nothing left for me here, Rick. It's time I move on."

The finality of her statement formed a stone inside the sheriff's stomach.

"You're still recoverin'."

"I know. My plan was to leave after I was healthy again, but things change." What happened last night changed everything. That gut-retching feeling that time was slipping between her fingers was growing with each minute she remained here. "I'll be alright. I've survived before with similar injuries."

"What are you gonna do?" Rick's anxiety increased with each word she spoke. "Where will you go?"

"Back to my initial plan before meeting you all—south. Go as far south as I can, maybe the coast. Find a temporary place to recuperate, and from there…who knows." She shrugged. After she got better, Samara would leave Georgia. Maybe head to Mexico where there was no chance of snow once winter hits, although food and water would probably be hard to come by. The northern part of Mexico was the least populated and the further south you went, the more the population grew. It was a double edged sword.

"Stay." The sheriff's soft voice brought her out of her musings. "Stay until you're alright to go. I can see how you struggle to walk around. How are you gonna fend for yourself out there without anyone to watch your back?" He remembered that last time they parted ways she ended up in a car accident.

"I don't know, Grimes." She seemed at a loss as she raked her hand through her hair in frustration. "Trust me, I'm aware of what can happen out there. But I'm not changing my mind, not this time. I'm _done_ here."

Rick closed his eyes in resignation. He knew her well enough to tell when she was dead serious and when she was still possible to convince the opposite. Right now, Samara would listen to no reason but her own.

He hadn't seen it. How far she was crumbling. Rick had always envisioned her like a rock in a storm, and even if she did break down inside, she wouldn't be caught dead revealing it to anyone. But looking at her now, she seemed more exhausted than ever. Those perpetual shadows underneath her eyes had prominent veins and even the white of her eyes were splattered with blood. Samara had lost weight as Rick could see her collarbone sticking out like a sore thumb.

—She was a mess.

But she needed someone, _anyone_ with her. Alistair had provided that companionship, but he was gone and Samara was now about to brave the opens roads with no certainty of survival.

"There's nothin' I can say that will make you stay, is there?"

Samara shook her head slowly.

"It was never permanent, sheriff. Me staying here." There was a tinge of sadness to her tone but it quickly dispersed into detachment. "Everything is temporary right now. Even we are."

Rick closed his eyes in tired acceptance. He had known from the beginning that there was a huge chance that Samara would get up and leave one day, he just hadn't wanted to acknowledge it not after they had gotten to know each other better. She had become a friend even through their sometimes capricious acquaintance—they were different people after all, with different opinions. And in a twisted way he needed her to be that voice of brutal reason—to be the one to speak those harsh truths he sometimes doesn't want to hear but needed to. At first, he had thought Shane could be the one, but his friend was slipping from his helping grasp and Rick had an ominous premonition that their friendship was rapidly coming to a close. But the marshal was also slipping away, so Rick slowly diverted his attention to Daryl's council.

His eyes opened with a faraway look. Samara was leaving and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Tomorrow, when me and Daryl are headin' out to take Randall, you'll come with us in your car. We'll escort you as far as we can, and after that we part ways."

There. He said it. It was settled.

"Alright. I was never a fan of big goodbyes." She frowned as a thought passed her mind. "Just tell the others that…"

He nodded in understanding. "I will."

With cautious steps, Samara approached the sheriff and extended her hand.

"Good luck, Rick Grimes."

Rick almost let out a wretched laugh. The gesture was reminiscent of their parting in Atlanta and so, to keep in role, the sheriff shook the offered hand.

"Good luck, Samara."

* * *

Night had settled in with a clear sky and actual stars brightening the darkness. The moon was out and full in all its glory.

A grunt.

Samara bended over herself as she panted and spat saliva.

She had finished stacking the last of her bags in her BMW. It had been a bit of a challenge as she did it without the others noticing. The last thing she wanted was to create a scene, so she had to act like a goddamn ninja and pack slowly during the day and move everything during the cover of night.

It paid off in the end. She was settled for tomorrow, with enough food and water to last her a few days courtesy of Hershel. She had thanked the old farmer so many times that he probably became tired of it.

—Samara also wondered why the hell the front of the car was banged up. The lights were broken and the bumper was sunken in. The hood was slightly bended as if the car hit something at high speed.

The marshal straightened up as she looked over the farm house. There were only a few lights left as everyone had eaten diner hours ago and settled in for the night. The night watch was out in the fields, scouting the perimeter so Samara was left without witnesses.

She did not want to return to the house so soon. The thought of being clustered with two other people in one room made her skin crawl. After so many months of being more or less on her own she valued her privacy above many things.

Digging through her bags, she found the bottle of vodka she was supposed to give Grimes.

_It'll have to do._

A lone figure silently prowled the lush fields of the farm, his steps making little to no noise. With the keen eyes of a veteran hunter, Daryl stalked in search for any disturbances of the walker kind. It was his watch, so he had taken on himself to make a few rounds of the farm. Just to be safe.

Daryl stiffened as something caught his eye in the distance. There was a light emanating from his old camp. As he got closer, his finger on the trigger of his crossbow, he saw a figure hunched over a small fire.

"Who's there?"

Daryl lowered his crossbow at rest. It was just the Native.

The woman squinted her eyes guardedly, one of her hands already brandishing her machete. She relaxed once Daryl stepped into the light of the campfire. "Oh, hey."

"The hell are you doin'?" His eyes narrowed in anger as he saw the bottle in her hand and the slight dazed expression on her face.

"Getting drunk. Want some?" She offered the bottle so nonchalantly that it just angered the hunter further.

"Are you out of your mind?!" He stomped nearer. "After what happened yesterday?"

"What happened yesterday is exactly why I'm drinking." She took a swing out of the bottle.

"Over a dog?"

"Fuck you, man." Samara scrunched up her nose in distaste. "I liked that dog. He was the only thing in this world that cared for me unconditionally. But he died saving one of your own, and now I'm left with nothing. So, yeah. I'm drinking." She raised the bottle in the air. "In Alistair's memory and for my last huzzah here."

Daryl watched her as she continued drinking and tried to calm his growing temper. She was nowhere near a quarter of the bottle and she was already dazed. If she continued, she was going to get flat out drunk by the time she reaches half of it.

"Give me that."

A grin was his answer as Samara handed him the bottle. "Now you're talking."

But her hopes were crushed as the hunter tipped the bottle, letting the liquid spill on the ground.

"Aw, man." Samara pouted as she mournfully watched the alcohol go to waste. "That's just mean."

"You're really crazy if you think I'm gonna let you drink yourself stupid." Daryl threw the bottle somewhere in the dark, ridding himself of it. He would have loved to cut loose, drink himself into a stupor and forget everything, but he couldn't. Not anymore.

"It would have been a nice change of pace, but you just had to go ahead and ruin it." Samara leaned back onto her elbows and watched the fire with a sudden drowsiness.

Daryl sighed and looked around. With the clear sky they had some visibility, but it still set the hunter on edge. They could still be taken by surprise. "Come on, get up."

"No."

A vein threatened to burst on his forehead. "Get. Up."

"Make me, bitch."

Samara almost jumped out of her skin as a callous hand grabbed her arm and forcefully dragged her to her feet. Letting out a surprised squawk, Samara tripped over herself as Daryl attempted to walk towards the farm with her in tow.

"Fuck! Let go, you hick! You're hurting me!" Daryl stopped as he guardedly watched the woman for any signs of treachery. She glared at him with teary eyes before pouting at the hand wrapped around her arm. "You can't be so rough with the injured."

With slow movements, the woman sank to the ground through Daryl's now loosened grip. Pain and soreness passed her features making it no mistake that she was still hurting. Sometimes, Daryl forgot that she was still in bad shape with the way she so nonchalantly walked around the farm.

The fire from the camp warmed their bodies even as they sat a few feet from it. The combination of heat and the cool of the night were pleasant to the bones.

"Damn, I didn't even drink that much and it already gave me a buzz." She chuckled as she made herself comfortable on the cold ground.

With a frustrated breath, Daryl crouched next to her. In this situation, it wouldn't help to get angry with an inebriated woman. "How long has it been since you drank?"

"Six months, maybe." The Native let her head hang between her bended knees, a groan escaping her.

"Shit, you actually wonder why you're already drunk." Daryl grimaced as he heard her burp rather unladylike. "You're rusty."

"Just relax, man." Samara giggled with a goofy smile as she massaged her lower back. "Let's just sit here. My back is killing me."

The hunter shook his head as his eyes flitted around them. "We ain't safe here."

"I know." The smile dropped as a somber shadow fell over the Native. "That's why I'm getting the fuck out of here tomorrow."

Light brown brows furrowed in confusion. "You what?

A brief moment of clear-headedness caused her mind to catch up with her words. She cringed as she realized that Daryl now knew of her imminent departure.

"Oops, it was supposed to be a secret. Eh, who cares anymore?" The marshal shrugged. Daryl wouldn't tell anyone and he sure as hell wasn't going to convince her otherwise. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

Daryl looked at her like she had grown a second head. "You can barely run. How the hell are you gonna survive out there?"

"Fuck if I know." Samara shrugged with little interest. "Maybe I won't."

An epiphany seemed to strike him. "Do you wanna kill yourself again? Is that it?"

"No." Samara snorted. "I'm only saving that as the last resort, I told you that already. I have no intention of dying so early." She looked him dead in the eyes. "I'm leaving because I _want_ to survive."

"You have a messed up way of doin' it. You won't last long with that banged up body."

"I'm actually more capable when I'm alone. I don't have to worry about anyone else, so I can do what I want without backlash."

"That's why you should stay here!" Daryl mentally rebutted himself for this slip of the tongue. He hadn't meant to say it out loud and judging from the marshal's stunned face, she hadn't expected it either. The hunter sighed as he massaged his face, a nagging tension growing inside him.

"Are you worried for my soul, Dixon?" After her initial surprise, a worn smile took its place. "Because I'm not. If I have to sink low to survive then so be it. Law of the motherfucking jungle, my hick friend." A russet finger poked him in the chest. "And I'm a goddamn, carrion-eating hyena."

"You're an idiot." He watched as her good mood soured into a grimace. "Before Wiltshire, would you have cared if you had killed that doctor to save your own ass?"

The faraway look in her eye told him that she was at least seriously pondering his question. If he had looked harder, Daryl could probably see the smoke come out of her ears. Her eyes focused back on him and the shadowed tint told him the answer before she had to say it. "…No."

"You really wanna be like that? You really wanna turn into a psycho?" The thought of her evolving into a second Shane was…disconcerting. She was already half-way there, but that didn't mean Daryl wanted her to reach the finish line.

"Then come with me."

Her sincere, unexpected reply made his jaw go slack.

Daryl's reaction brought back the smile on her face. "I don't really care much if I go back to my old ways. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make to survive. But there's a part of me that still clings to whatever pieces of humanity I still have." Her fingers clench over the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt, captivating the most of Daryl's attention. "So, how about it? Come with me and that way I won't slip. We both have better chances of surviving out there than any of the others. Besides, you said it yourself—the group is breaking. Maybe it's time you left also. Start anew without so many burdens."

The idea was tempting. To be free of duty, of obligations towards others. Just him and another survivor on the road. Samara and he were more than capable of handling themselves and guarding each other's back. But…

"…I can't."

The thought of leaving the others—in the crumpled state they were in—alone, made his stomach churn. If things had been different, if Sophia hadn't disappeared, if walkers hadn't been present on the farm…if life didn't feel like it was breathing down his neck _then_ he would have left without guilt.

Samara chuckled as she grinned in sardonic delight. "Redneck with a heart of gold."

"Don't call me that."

She had called him that during her speech two days ago and he hadn't liked it then. All his life he had been labeled as a 'bad guy' and once you're told that over a dozen times you start to believe it. And now, Daryl was considered a good guy—a redneck with a heart of gold, in Samara's words. People trusted him, looked up to him for advice and leadership. It takes time to adapt to such a transition. He was stubborn, and decades of downbeat opinions made it difficult to see himself as a good person.

"Deny it as much as you like, but you're a far better person than you realize. Too bad, I think we could have made a good team."

Daryl avoided her gaze as he rose to his feet. He approached the fire and with a few kicks of dirt, he extinguished it. The hunter returned to the half-asleep marshal and shook her awake. She gave him a bleary eyed stare as his hand extended in offering and without a word, Samara took it. She wobbled on her feet and her coordination was distorted, but she managed to walk an almost straight line.

The hunter was taking her to the RV as there was no way in hell he would walk her back to her room. He didn't want the attention or the barrage of questions on why the marshal was drunk.

A low sound caught his attention as Samara hummed deep in her throat. He knew that tune. It was a Johnny Cash song.

"_I fell into a burnin' ring of fire. I went down, down, down. And the flames went higher. And it burns, burns, burns. The ring of fire...the ring of fire..._"

Daryl winced. Her singing voice was gravelly and off tune and it made his ears hurt. It was obvious Samara would have never made it as a singer and the hunter seriously considered gagging her just to make her stop.

—Why did she choose that particular song? If Daryl remembered correctly, the song was about the volatile love between June and Cash. Was Samara reminiscing some memories or did that vodka screw up her mind so thoroughly that she was just aimlessly doing things.

Thankfully, the marshal continued with only humming as they walked towards the RV. Getting her to step inside proved to be a bit of a challenge as she resisted. Daryl had to pin her arms to the side and lift her inside. The hunter didn't know if she was struggling out of habit or to annoy him. Probably both knowing her.

"Uh-oh…" Samara stopped suddenly as her eyes widened. "Let me go! Let me go!"

Daryl did once he heard the tell-tale gurgling of someone about to vomit. Samara sprinted out of his arms and into the bathroom where she remained hunched over the toilet bowl, puking her guts out.

Daryl sighed as he massaged the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Why is it that she always ended up vomiting with him?

The hunter waited with a towel in hand outside the small, clustered bathroom as Samara continued purging herself. He thought about stepping in and holding her hair at the least but changed his mind at the last minute. It was already bad enough that he saw her in this state again; she probably did not want him helping her.

"Ugh…" Samara spat as she raised her head, drool leaking from the corner of her mouth. "I'm never drinking again."

The hunter snorted. He's heard that one before.

"Here."

Samara took the offered towel and wiped the lower half of her face. With disgust she threw it away before using the sink to raise herself to her feet. Daryl took a hold of her arm to steady her before guiding her to the beds in the back of the RV.

The Native crashed on the bed not even bothering to take off her hoodie or boots. She swung her arm over her eyes to block out the light Daryl turned on as he moved around the RV. A bucket was placed at the side of the bed, a blanket thrown over her body and a glass of water and some pills on the nightstand.

"You got everythin' you need here when you wake up."

"Thanks."

Daryl nodded before narrowing his eyes. "Next time, don't be an idiot and get yourself shitfaced."

Samara simply grunted.

The hunter watched as the Native breath lengthened until she was no longer conscious of the outside world. A small smirk appeared as he thought of tomorrow. The Indian was going to wake up in a world of hurt. Six months without alcohol will give her one massive headache.

Thinking that his job was done, Daryl turned off the camp lantern and moved towards the exit. He was still the night watch until his change of shift at three and there was still ground left to cov—

–Cool, spidery fingers wrapped around his wrist.

"Hey, after I'm gone…" Samara spoke softly in the dark. "Be there for Grimes. He can't rely on Shane anymore. I'm afraid of what he might do."

Normally, Daryl would have rebuked her plea. It stood on the tip of his tongue that he was no one's keeper, but he knew that her words were true. Rick was already leaning on him, so he had grudgingly accepted his new role with a bucket of salt.

The hunter nodded knowing she couldn't see before looking down at her hand on his.

It was _warm_—

"…Sorry about the dog."

A tension seemed to overwhelm her, before it dissipated into a passive sadness.

"Yeah, I am too." The gloom passed as a more light-hearted mood settled. "I _really_ would have liked to go hunting, you know. I probably wouldn't have made it past half an hour without trying to annoy you, but it's the thought that counts."

A prickling sensation set his ears aflame and he just knew that they were red. The woman had a knack for making him uncomfortable without her even realizing. As the seconds stretched on, Daryl realized that the marshal was still holding his wrist. Their talk was practically over as Samara was already half-asleep, but the hunter still remained, waiting for other words.

Running out of patience, he tried to pry his fingers off him. The awkwardness of the moment was making it unbearable for him to remain as he just now realized their position—it was dark, it was warm and it was just the two of them in a small enclosed space.

—Nothing good ever came out of this.

The Native opened her eyes just as the hunter pried the first finger off. Daryl stopped dead as russet skin ghosted down his wrist and stopped at his hand. A callous thumb caressed the life lines on his palm.

Each strand of hair on Daryl's body rose as goosebumps covered his arms. Her touch was soft, contrary to her person, and with no malice behind it. It tipped the hunter off balance as a current crawled up his spine making him hyper-aware of _everything_ inside the room.

—The heat was back and it scorched him like Hell's fire.

Her gaze seemed captivated by her finger's path on his palm. Despite the drunken haze, there was a quiet intensity to her eyes. She turned his hand so she could study his palm more freely, the thumb never pausing in its caress.

—Daryl shuddered as her thumb gently pressed into the center of his palm.

It was too much and he wanted nothing more than to tear his hand away from her attention. His skin was callous and cracked and most likely dirty from grime. His hands were scarred and hardened from years of working and he sometimes experienced prominent veins.

—There was nothing she should fawn over.

The torture ended just as his thought did as Samara gave his hand one last squeeze before turning with her back to him, directly falling into slumber. Letting the breath he had been holding out, Daryl unfroze and stepped away as silently as possible. His heart sped as he could still feel her cool skin on his.

Daryl gave her one last lingering look before running out of the RV. Outside, the hunter braced himself against the vehicle as he caught his breath. He needed a shower. A _very_ cold one.

What was happening to him? One moment Daryl couldn't stand the marshal and the next he has to flee the room because he didn't know what he would do to her if he had been a lesser man. Either he really needed to get laid or there was something deeper that he did not want to understand. He hoped to Christ it was the first because he couldn't handle the second. Not with _her_.

It didn't matter. She was leaving tomorrow and Daryl will probably never see her again. Samara had the right idea to leave. It was toxic for someone like her to be around. The Indian had tried changing—she even made it halfway there, but her post-apocalyptic unscrupulous nature was tearing her apart between what was morally right and what was in the best interest of survival.

If she had been around people from the beginning it would have been different—she wouldn't have been so emotionally disturbed, for one. At times, Daryl wondered if he would have ended up like that if he had left the group when they fled Atlanta.

A part of him didn't want her to leave for reasons unknown to him. They weren't friends but there was _something_ there. The start of something and he would have liked if he had someone to watch his back out in the woods. In the beginning he had Merle, and now, Samara was the only one who could actually keep up with him and not get overwhelmed or spooked.

Daryl shook his head as he walked away from the RV, ridding himself of these thoughts. There was no reason for him to ponder on the woman's decisions. Neither he nor any of the others had any right to tell her what to do. Besides, he still had to check the other half of the farm, before camping on the front porch for his watch. He probably will have to move to the top of the RV in case anything did happen so he could get Samara out in time.

The hunter could still feel the lingering heat at the pit of his stomach and a bath at this hour was out of the question unless he wanted to wake the entire house. At least he could console himself with the fact that the night was cold enough for his body to cool down.

A small mercy.

* * *

_**Foot Note:**_ Two chapters left. I was thinking when I should do this but I think now its best:

If you have any questions regarding the story (clarifications, characters, etc.) don't hesitate to ask. I will answer at the best of my ability and no, don't ask for spoilers. I ain't that cheap.


	23. Even Utopia Has an End

Yawn.

Daryl brushed the slumber out of his eyes as he stepped off the wooden porch. He only slept five hours, but he made it a point to check up on the Indian.

When he finished his shift, the hunter passed his watch duties over to Glenn. Daryl also told the boy of Samara's state in case he confused her with a walker if she woke up in the middle of the dark, groaning and limping.

Approaching the RV, he saw Glenn covered in blankets, watching the tree line with a sleepy gaze.

"Fell asleep yet?"

The boy jumped from the disturbance and turned to see Daryl as narrowed eyed as ever.

"Almost did twice." Glenn sighed as he massaged his tired face. "I'm not an night owl. I can't stay awake at these late hours."

Daryl scoffed as he looked at the quiet RV. "She gave you any trouble?"

"Samara? She woke up an hour ago to throw up." Glenn shrugged. "Other than that, pretty much nothing."

The hunter was already entering the RV as Glenn was halfway through his sentence. And as the Chinaman said, Samara was lost to all things conscious. She was sprawled out on the bed lightly snoring with the blanket on the floor.

Daryl shook his head at the sight and with no pity, banged against the bed waking the women up with a startle. The moment she opened her eyes, Samara croaked grumpily before letting her head crash back on the mattress.

"Oh Gods, make the world stop spinning."

"That's what you get for drinkin' vodka, idiot." Gripping the shabby drapes, Daryl pulled them aside so the brightness of the rising sun could illuminate the interior.

The marshal began whimpering as she shielded herself with a pillow from the sun's merciless rays. "Kill me, please."

Daryl could almost feel the pain she was in, but she dug her own grave this time. Checking the supplies he left her, he was content to know that she took the pills for the hangover and drank some of the water. Picking up the half empty water bottle from the nightstand, he extended it towards her. "Here."

Samara peeked from her hiding place and with a frustrated whine, she gingerly rose to a sitting position. Taking the offered supplies, the woman chugged the water down in one go.

Daryl sat on the opposite bed as the Indian finished the bottle and burped almost silently. Squinty eyed, she looked around confused for a few seconds before the light bulb finally went on and she realized where she was. That narrowed gaze then landed on him.

"What's the time?"

"Seven in the mornin'."

"Shit, it's too early." The woman leaned back unhappily and rested against the wall. Daryl almost laughed out loud. The Indian looked like she wanted to blame someone for the state she was in, but had nobody to, so she stewed in her own silent anger. "When are we leaving with Randall?"

"Sometime after noon."

Samara nodded before sliding down back into bed. "I think I'm going back to sleep. Wake me up before we leave, will you?"

Daryl understood as she needed to be fresh for when she left. On the other hand, if she had wanted to be in top shape, Samara shouldn't have drank herself into a stupor. As he opened the door to the RV, he came face to face with a frowning sheriff.

"Daryl, have you seen Samara? She wasn't in her room."

"She's inside sleepin'."

The frown cleared off his face and instead surprise dominated it before confusion and slight suspicion took over. Rick studied Daryl's tussled clothes and hair and then gazed inside the RV with an unreadable expression. As Daryl wondered why the Kentucky man was looking at him like that, it soon dawned on him where Grimes' mind wondered to.

—His body worked itself into a fluster at the insinuation.

"I found her last night at my camp, drunk off her ass." Daryl blurted out.

"What?!" The suspicion instantly crashed into rage. "Is she insane?"

"You really gotta ask?"

Rick attempted to get past the hunter so he could tell the marshal exactly what he thought of her antics, but like a statue Daryl remained frozen in place.

"Don't think she's gonna be in any state to listen." Daryl said as he backed the sheriff enough so he could close the door. "She'd just throw up on you instead."

"He's not kidding. She almost did on me." Glenn interjected from his vantage point.

Rick let out an exasperated sigh as he raked a hand through his hair. Of all the idiotic things Samara could do was to get face-in-the-asphalt inebriated.

"Why the hell would she do a stupid thing like that?"

"The dog."

The sheriff paused incredulous. "She got dead drunk over _Alistair_?" It was hard to imagine that considering the disregard she treated the dog with.

Daryl shrugged. Women and animals…He never understood it.

With a sigh, Rick gave Glenn a pointed look. "Tell her when she wakes up to get back in the house."

The Korean nodded as he returned to his seat on the RV, continuing his vigil. Rick and Daryl walked back towards the house in silence—the sheriff was still angry about Samara's unpredictable actions and Daryl was considering bringing rifles along on the trip.

"Daryl…" The sheriff spoke up. "Samara is comin' with us to take Randall."

"I know. She's leavin'. "

A hitch in the sheriff's step.

"She told you…" Rick slowed down as faced the hunter. "Got any thoughts?"

"On what?" He knew what Rick was fishing for—a defining reason for the woman to remain. But Daryl had none for him and even if he did, he wasn't sure he would divulge it.

"You want her to leave?"

A pause.

"It's her choice."

Rick searched for something in Daryl's eyes, but was left disappointed. He said nothing as he climbed the steps of the porch and the hunter watched as he disappeared inside the barely illuminated house.

* * *

"Samara."

The hand shaking her shoulder caused the woman to grumble crabbily. One eye opened to see the blurred form of Glenn sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Ugh…Morning, Glenn." Samara rolled over so she could see the young man better. At least now she wasn't seeing in double and her migraine toned down to an acceptable level.

"Rick told me to wake you up." The Korean smiled weakly. "It's noon."

"Fine, I'll get up in a minute."

Only after Glenn left did Samara roll onto her stomach and hastily pulled the bucket from underneath the bed to puke her guts out. It had been extremely hard to keep her bearings while Glenn had been sitting next to her. The marshal hadn't wanted to embarrass herself a second time.

Spitting out what little she had in her stomach, Samara let herself hang by the side of the bed. She felt like someone just moped a rough, spiky floor with her. Why the hell had she drank so much? Even before the virus, she hadn't been much of a drinker. In fact, she was a light weight, something her husband always teased her about.

Her arms wobbled as she picked herself up into a sitting position. She felt like shit. Her body felt like shit. Samara was a mess, but she had to get up.

Slowly, the marshal traveled across the RV with one hand holding her unstable stomach. As the door opened, the marshal recoiled as the light of the sun blinded her and caused her headache to worsen.

Inhaling a deep breath, Samara braved the harsh, too bright world and stepped outside.

"How's the headache?"

Looking up, she saw Andrea keeping vigil over the farm. There was a knowing smirk on her lips that set the marshal's temper aflame.

"Just peachy."

Samara grumbled as she limped towards the house. There was a distant, annoying banging and Samara watched as Shane either tried to fix or vent his anger on the farm's windmill. Lori approached the aggravated man, but Samara was too far away to hear the basics of their conversation so she just kept on walking.

Entering the house, Samara first headed for her room to resupply herself with painkillers. Dry swallowing one, she hoped that its effect would hit soon—her back and stomach were aflame again.

In the kitchen, the marshal was left to her devices as she created herself a small breakfast. As much as she wanted to stuff her face like a pig, she was rather cautious of not getting sick again.

Not even halfway into her simple meal did Grimes step into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. Pausing in her chew, Samara scoffed as she saw the patronizing way the sheriff was watching her.

"Don't give me that look. I knew it was a bad idea from the start." The major headache she was experiencing was proof of it.

"Then you should have stopped." He stepped inside the kitchen and gripped the back of one the chairs opposite her.

Samara shrugged in disinterest as she swallowed a piece of bacon. "I already have all my things packed and stuffed in my car."

Rick nodded. "We'll leave after you eat." His fingers clenched against the back of the chair as he felt his stomach tighten. "Samara…Are you sure?"

The marshal paused.

_Am I?_

"No, but I'm not changing my mind." Samara played with her food now disinterested with eating.

There was a tense pause between them as only the sound of cutlery and the muffled steps from upstairs were heard.

"You told Daryl."

Samara raised her head and looked the man in the eye.

"It slipped actually. I wasn't exactly in control last night." A dark brow rose in question. "Does it really matter? He would have known anyways."

"Did…"

"What?"

The sheriff was looking strangely at her, almost like there was something inside her that he needed to see. The moment didn't last long as Grimes closed his eyes and shook his head, most likely clearing his head, but leaving Samara even more confused.

"Nothin'. Be ready."

After divulging her intentions, Samara had been left with a feeling of walking on eggshells around the sheriff. Rick was a good guy, but he didn't like changes that affected him. And her leaving must have had an impact on him, because it sure as hell had an effect on her too.

"Will you be alright, sheriff?"

Rick paused at the door. There was a palpable tenseness about him and Samara felt a bit guilty for overburdening him. After the happenings of the last few days, she was surprised the man was still keeping his head above water. But he was strong, above all. It wasn't his time to break yet.

"I hope so."

The last of his footsteps were overshadowed by the inner silence the marshal was experiencing. It wasn't a grave silence because she could hear the faint sound of TV fleas and Samara wasn't exactly sure if it was real or not.

As Samara concentrated harder on this strange phenomenon, Dale entered the kitchen, cautious of scaring the woman off. Blinking once, the marshal's face set into stone and she rose to leave. The old man had the audacity to block her exit with his body.

"Samara, please."

"What, Dale?"

She couldn't look him in the eye.

"Can you please talk to me?" The old man took off his hat as he stared pleadingly.

Samara snickered in disbelief. She wanted to rip the hair out of her head.

"I don't know what to say to you."

Dale let out a tired breath. Even after two days, he still had the jitters. Every abrupt sound made his heart jump and his nights were as restless as his days. And even when he did sleep, he had continuous nightmares. The old man thought, that maybe if he talked to the Native, he would finally get some peace of mind.

"I just need to tell you that I know you cared about Alistair. I'm not gonna say I'm sorry that he saved me because that would be a lie. I'm so relieved that I still breathe to this day, but I am sorry that Alistair had to pay the price."

"For your stupidity?" Samara couldn't help herself not to bite.

"Yes."

The woman settled back against the fridge as she keenly watched the man. "Why did you walk the fields, Dale? In the middle of the goddamn night? Did you really think we're _that_ safe here?"

"Yes, I did." That false sense of security almost had him killed. "I never thought that a walker would attack me after all this time. I thought we were finally safe."

—That he had a home again.

Craning her neck, Samara wished she could remain dumb to his words, but she couldn't. She understood him perfectly. If she had been in his shoes, she probably would have thrown the mutt at the walker.

"Alistair had a big heart. The kind only dogs have. That's why he saved you." The marshal breathed in deeply. "I can't forgive you right now, Dale. Maybe later, when I get my head sorted."

Dale placed his hat back on. She hadn't forgiven him but it wasn't an impossibility. Grief takes time; he knew that more than anyone. If he couldn't with words, then he will make it up to her with actions.

The old man watched as Samara slowly walked in to her room, closing the door silently behind her.

* * *

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

The hammers that continuously hit against the wooden boards had the marshal groan in desperation.

_Dear Gods, what did I ever do to you to deserve this?_

Jimmy and Beth were oblivious to the marshal's pain as they worked effortlessly in their task of reinforcing the house. As good as their intentions were, they made the marshal's life a living hell.

—Hangover and injuries were never a good combination for the after morning.

_Bang_.

Samara almost puked right then and there as Beth hammered against a particularly tricky nail. It wasn't enough that the sun just happened to burn the brightest today, the kids had to act like adults and help out.

The door of the house opened as the Georgia crossbow-trotting man exited the house, weapon over his shoulder. At the sight of the marshal—a cap over her head, sunglasses covering her eyes and an ill grimace—Daryl couldn't help but smirk. He knew _exactly_ what ailed her.

"Enjoyin' the fresh air?"

"Piss off."

Samara scowled at the man's back as he simply continued with his task of supplying the car with necessities: a whole lot of weapons.

Somber eyes perused over the grounds and watched the others immerse themselves in their tasks to forget the troubles hounding them at every corner. As long as Randall remained on the farm, the people living here slept with one eye open. Samara could already see the beginnings of dark shadows underneath their eyes.

A sense of melancholy overtook her as she realized this was it; she was leaving in a few minutes.

_Dammit…_

The Native closed her eyes. She promised herself she wouldn't get sad. Tears helped with nothing as they only made you look frail, but she couldn't help it. The Atlanta group will be the last people she will see in who knows how long and if it were up to the marshal, a very long time.

Samara should have remained neutral to them. She should have never let them weasel their way inside her chest. Because she knew that one day all of them would die—either by walker or human hand. There was no time for affection these days, only shrewd calculations and cold survival instinct. But she _stupidly_ got attached to them and now she will suffer the consequences.

It was different when she was alone. There was no one to miss and no one that would miss her. If she died no one would know, no one would care. The person Samara would just vanish without a trace. Even now, she sometimes preferred it that way.

—Not like she had a legacy to leave behind.

But now…when Samara woke up, she expected them all to be there: for Dale to be on watch on his RV with that ridiculous hat on his head, Lori and Carol to be doing household chores, T-Dog to be cooking some of those delicious omelets, Shane to be cleaning his guns, Andrea either on the RV or helping Shane, Carl getting his mother worried, Glenn running around camp helping everyone and Rick…watching over his group, making sure everyone was safe.

"You know…on some fucked up level, I am going to miss them." Her hushed words paused the hunter in his work. Calm olive eyes traveled to Daryl's form as she watched the taut muscles in his back. "Even you." A small ironic smirk split her lips. "Are you going to miss me?"

Daryl snorted derisively still not turning around.

Samara cut off the small laughter she was about to let out as T-Dog stepped out of the house with a gun in hand.

"You only got so many arrows." He said as he handed the hunter a Glock.

Daryl shook his head as he pointed towards his own arsenal. "Got mine."

T-Dog insisted. "You never know, man."

With a grunt, the hunter took the offered weapon and stuck it at the back of his pants.

"What about you, Samara? You armed to the teeth?"

The simple thumbs-up the marshal gave had T-Dog smiling in amusement. He knew even before asking that the woman probably had more weapons on her than Daryl and Rick put together, but he had to be sure.

"You two ready?"

The three of them turned to see the sheriff approach with a stiff posture and Daryl and Samara both grunted an affirmative. Time was wasting and Samara had miles to go.

Minutes passed as the trio waited for T-Dog who earlier volunteered to get Randall for them. They did not speak , instead opting to wait in silence. As the seconds stretched on, Grimes kept throwing furtive glances at her. There was a need to speak, but the urge was thoroughly quelled. There was nothing to say and Samara did not want to create pandemonium if she said the wrong words to incite the sheriff.

—But even now, at the last hundred meters, nothing ever could go smoothly.

"Guys!"

T-Dog's panicked yell alerted everyone on the grounds.

"Randall's gone!"

Samara's jaw went lax.

_You've got to be kidding me…_

* * *

Samara stood outside the shed as the others searched inside and around it. Randall was gone and strangely Samara didn't care. The only thing she cared about was leaving and this incident was delaying her departure.

The marshal watched as everyone inspected the small wooden shed with clinical precision as if there was a clue hidden within the dust. Daryl was the only one looking for all the right signs—trails, boot prints.

"How long's he been gone?"

"It's hard to say." Rick stepped out of the shed, angry and bewildered. "The cuffs are still hooked. He must've slipped 'em."

"Is that possible?" Carol asked wide eyed.

"It is if you've got nothin' to lose." Andrea followed the sheriff outside. Her pale eyes narrowed over the grounds, searching for an answer that nobody could give her.

"The door was secured from the outside." The farmer said as he looked over the padlock. It had been opened from the outside, not forced from the inside.

This wasn't right. Samara looked over the field as she tried to put two and two together. The handcuffs were still hanging from the ceiling and the door hadn't been forced open. The only conclusion she came to was that—

"Someone let him—" Daryl's words were cut short as a loud bellow surprised everyone.

"Rick!"

Samara was left narrowed eyed as Shane, the only one missing from the merry band, emerged from the forest with a bloodied nose.

"What happened?" Lori shouted in panic as she saw the blood.

"He's armed! He's got my gun!" The man approached like a raging bull. "Little bastard just snuck up on me. He clocked me in the face."

"All right." Rick said without a second thought. Now was not the time to think, but to act. "Hershel, Lori, get everybody back in the house! Glenn, T-Dog, Daryl, come with us!"

"Just let him go." Carol said desperately. Nothing good could come out from chasing after the boy. "That was the plan, wasn't it, to just let him go?"

"The plan was to cut him loose far away from here, not on our front step with a gun!" Rick hollered in aggravation. This whole situation was out of his control again.

"Don't go out there. Ya'll know what can happen." Carol tried desperately to deter the men as they armed themselves and walked towards the farm.

Everyone was on the edge as they watched the majority of their force set off to find one man that could determine the future of their safety at the farm—one that could end in disaster or continuous anticipation of a retaliation.

Samara harshly bit the inside of her cheek as she saw her escort walk further and further away. While she didn't need them to leave, it would have been nice to have them oversee her goodbye. The marshal felt like childishly stomping her foot in frustration.

The sheriff paused and his stern gaze landed on the marshal.

"Samara, keep everyone safe! Lock all the doors and stay put!"

It wasn't a plea. The sheriff was commanding her to secure his people.

—It did not sit well with the marshal.

Samara stared coldly. What obligation did she have to help the Atlanta group anymore? She was out of their circle. She was _leaving_.

The marshal scoffed internally. Why was it that every time things finally calmed down, chaos reigned upon them like clockwork? Were these people destined for wretchedness? If so, she wanted to be as far away as possible.

Could she leave them like this? In this chaos? A month ago, she wouldn't have cared. The marshal would have already been halfway out of Georgia by now. Probably would have left with some of the group's stuff too. But she knew them. Got attached to them. Every fiber within her body told her to go, but her heart tugged her towards these people. Her survival instincts were bashing heads with her heart and Samara felt torn apart.

With a deep breath, the Native made her decision.

Turning her back on the sheriff, she didn't see the minute crack in the man's expression as she walked away.

"Everyone, go back in the house."

Samara ignored the hunting men's surprise and focused on the people in her care. Even they seemed quietly off balance as they stared unsure between her and Rick.

"Are you deaf?" Samara barked irritated. "Now!"

The group finally came back to life as they rapidly walked back to the house. Hershel redirected his family as Lori did hers and her people.

Samara remained behind as she gazed at the sheriff sternly. This was the last time she did him any favors and she hoped that it showed on her face. Rick's gaze softened as he nodded thankfully. He knew it probably tore her to agree to his demand but right now he had bigger problems in his hands.

Samara watched the men disappear into the forest and hoped to the Gods that they'll find Randall soon. Dead or alive.

The Native followed the others to the house but she still couldn't shake this unnatural feeling. Like a winter current washing over you on a calm day. It seeped into her bones and chilled her soul and Samara felt the urge to run again.

Something was happening.

Something bad.

Inside the house, Samara was greeted to Jimmy, Beth and Maggie running through the house locking all the doors and blocking all the windows. Hershel was speaking with Dale and Lori in harsh whispers when the marshal interrupted in a strict voice.

"Dale, where are the guns?"

"In my room." Hershel responded.

Samara nodded before spotting Andrea by the kitchen. "Can you get those machetes Carl found at the highway?"

The blonde wasted no time as she hurried into one of the other rooms and at the same time Samara into the farmer's vintage style room and found the gun bag by his bed. Returning back into the living room, the Native placed it on the coffee table.

"Everyone takes a gun, even the boy." Samara gave Lori a pointed look as she saw the woman ready to protest, but for once she swallowed her tongue and nodded. "Use them as a last resort _only_. The blades come first."

It was then that Andrea returned with the machetes and unrolled the sheath to reveal shinny, coal colored blades. Everyone gathered to take one piece except Samara, who kept to her own trusty machete.

"Don't be without a form of protection. Stay in the living area and don't leave the house."

Samara looked at each and every one of them in turn. Some were scared, others wary, and the marshal understood them fully, because she felt both in various degrees. But now was not the time to give into basic urges and flee. They had to stand strong and united because who knew where this day could lead them.

"Andrea, Jimmy and Dale, the four of us are going to guard the house from the outside. Hershel, you and Maggie keep everyone safe inside. Lock all the doors and everyone pack one bag with only basic essentials."

"What?" Carol asked confused. "Why?"

"In case we have to run."

The marshal's words sent a chill down their spines. If the room had felt on edge, now it was absolutely suffocating. The insinuation had brought a whole new level of horrifying ideas to the group's mind and the marshal could see it on their ever-changing expressions. They needed to be scared to realize that this situation can, at any moment, spiral out of control and the marshal wanted them to be prepared in case it did.

"I'm not gonna abandon my home." Hershel declared strongly. He will not be strong-armed out of his family's house, no matter what.

"We might not have a choice." Samara argued her point. "Just do it."

"You think we'll have to run?" Carl asked front the protective clutch of his mother. There was a slight shake to his body, no doubt from fear, but he tried to remain strong for his mother. Just like a good little soldier.

"I don't know, but I'm not taking any chances." Samara armed her hunting rifle with bullets. "If we do have to leave, everyone go to the highway jam. If you get separated, wait for the others there as long as you can, no more no less."

* * *

Samara felt so frustrated that she couldn't even sit still. Something was definitely wrong out there in the fields. It was _too_ quiet.

She and Andrea paced across the front porch of the house while Dale and Jimmy remained at the back. They have been on guard for far too long now and night had fully settled in barely two hours ago.

—And they had no word from Grimes or the others.

"Shit, it's _very_ late." Andrea spat as she looked worriedly into the dark, hoping for a sign. "Where are they?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think somethin' happened to them?"

"I. Don't. Know. Andrea." A dark brow twitched as Samara grinded her teeth harshly. "I'm not psychic."

The blonde paused as she observed the marshal's rigidity. She looked like a cobra ready to jump at the first person who touched her. "What the hell is up your ass?"

Samara breathed in deeply as she massaged her closed eyes. The hangover hadn't passed and neither did the migraine. And the constant tension she had been under had drained her of all her strength for today.

"I shouldn't be here."

Andrea looked at her strangely.

"I was leaving today. For good."

Confusion turned to surprise as Andrea understood what the marshal was fuming about.

Samara sighed as she sat in the rocking chair by the door, finally resting her feet. "I was going to leave with Rick and Daryl with the excuse to send Randall off, but I was actually going to separate from them and never look back."

Andrea stood stupefied as she listened to the woman. _Samara's jumping ship?_

"Did Rick know?"

"Of course he did." Samara crossed her arms as a slight chill froze her skin. She only had a dark T-Shirt with a red checkered button-shirt over so she was rather cold.

"Why?"

"There's nothing left for me here. I don't belong."

Andrea scoffed. "Neither of us do, but we still have to live together."

"You do, I don't." _Goddamn, I really want a cigarette. _"I'm not one of you and it's starting to make me go fucking crazy. We'll never be on the same wavelength and you people are…" Samara gesticulated with her hands as she couldn't find the least insulting ones.

"You don't have to tell me. I've know them longer than you." Andrea sat on the railing opposite the Native. "You're flyin' solo, huh?"

Samara gave her a pointed look. The blonde wasn't going to get a seat in her car.

"Well…good luck, I guess."

The marshal inclined her head like a curious bird. She hadn't expected that. A plea to join her, yes, but not a bon voyage.

"Really? No, 'please, don't leave' or 'you're making a mistake' or 'you're an idiot'?"

The blonde shrugged. "You do what you think it's right for you. And if that means leavin', then go. Don't stick around for anyone just because it makes them feel better while you're dyin' inside."

An actual smile tried to escape the Native's control. This woman in front of her would be the only one that would genuinely wish her well. "Thank you, Andrea. That actually means a lot to hear."

"Samara, considerin' what I've been through, I'm the last person that will ever try to stop you."

Whatever the marshal planned to say was interrupted as Lori stormed out of the house, worry mingled with anxiety oozing out of her.

"Any sign of them?" She asked the two women on watch.

"No."

Lori placed her hand over her stomach as her breathing sped up. Despair pooled in her dark eyes as she tried to look into the darkness for her husband.

That gaze then turned over to the seated marshal. "Samara, can't you go find them?"

The officer in question gave the woman an 'are-you-serious?' look. Even Andrea raised an incredulous brow at the absurd suggestion.

"You're the only one that can track them down." Lori crossed her arms in frustration.

"Yeah, in daylight, not in the middle of the dark." A new layer of anger settled over. "I'm not a cat, I don't have night vision."

"We can't just sit here and do nothin'! It's been _hours_."

Samara sat up as heat crawled all over her body and faced the dark-haired woman with a stern glare. "You want to go walk in the dark, be my guest, Lori. But I'm not stepping one foot in that forest." The marshal deflated as she raked her hand through her hair. "Just stay inside and be patient. We haven't heard any gunshots which is a good sign. And if they found Randall, the little shit won't be much trouble to take down."

"He did with Shane and the man's three times the boy's size." Lori spat at the marshal's unwillingness to do anything.

"Yeah…" Andrea drawled as she gazed skeptically between the two women. "I'm actually really curious how that happened. Shane ain't exactly someone you can take down so easily."

Samara shrugged. "Shane most likely let him go."

"What?" Lori's voice skyrocketed incredulously.

The marshal closed her eyes in discomfort as the woman screeched right in her ear. Her migraine did a triple leap at that point.

"Randall has been bound and gagged since he got here." Samara tried to explain as calmly as possible. She had been thinking over it for hours and she came to one conclusion—"If he could escape so easily he would have done it a long time ago. There was no fresh blood to indicate he struggled out of his bonds which he would have had to do to escape. That or break some of his fingers. There was nothing. Not even signs of a scuffle which should have been judging from Shane's broken nose. So, someone untied him and Shane was the last one to see Randall. In result—Shane set him free."

Both women were left stunned as they listened to Samara's reasoning.

"I can't believe you just said that." Lori whispered harshly. Shane would never do that. She wouldn't believe it. "Why the hell would you think he'd do that?"

"Because Shane wants him dead and your husband doesn't." It was actually simple deduction. Samara had wondered at one point if Randall was not already dead. Maybe he had been since before Shane showed up with a bloody nose.

"Do you think Shane would go that far?" Andrea asked now seeing the situation from the marshal's perspective.

Samara stared blankly.

_After their talk yesterday…_

"Most definitely."

"I'm not hearin' this." Lori shook her head in aggravation. She couldn't believe that Andrea would actually hear the marshal's words. "You just say the most _perverse_ things for your own sick entertainment. I'm goin' inside. I can't listen to you anymore."

The door closed with such force that it echoed out into the dark.

"Huh." Andrea gave the Native an amused eyebrow raise. "And I thought _I_ was the only one blacklisted by the 'Queen Bee'."

"You don't want to know, believe me." Samara snorted, remembering their argument in the barn.

"Samara…" Now was not the time to think about Lori, but about actual important matters. "If Shane did kill Randall, why are they still out there?"

The Native stared at the blonde. "You believe me?"

"Yeah…" Even if she couldn't, the marshal's theory wouldn't leave her alone. It seemed far too real. "I don't really want to, but I do believe you. You're a cop and you're smart. You see more than we do."

"I don't know why they're still searching. Maybe Shane wants to keep the illusion alive, but I'm betting my left asscheek that Rick already came to the same conclusion that I did." Samara knew that Rick would have rattled his brains to find the root of this whole mess and he most definitely didn't like what he came up with. "He might not be the best in making decisions, but he's very perceptive."

"Fuck…" A whole new level of worry had the blonde's skin crawl. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know, but that's not my only concern."

Andrea didn't like the sound of that.

"Do you hear that?" Samara asked quietly as if she was almost afraid of being heard.

"No." Was there was something she was supposed to hear?

"Exactly." A drop of sweat traveled down Samara's temple. "There's no sound. No night insects, no crickets."

"So?"

"Since we stepped foot on this farm all I've ever heard were crickets. The fact that they're not chirping anymore is disturbing."

Andrea shook her head. "I still don't follow."

"Crickets stop making noise when they feel movement." Samara explained as her eyes returned to the darkness. "There are probably thousands of them in the fields. Why the hell would thousands of crickets go silent all of the sudden?"

It suddenly clicked to the blonde why Samara was so uptight. Andrea stared wide eyed into the same darkness, a troubled expression on her face. Was something out there or was the marshal's imagination running rampant?

As the women looked on, they didn't notice the small presence listening in to their conversation. Carl stepped back from the window, wide eyed. He had heard everything and with each word his fear imbedded deeper and deeper into his soul. If what Samara had said to be true then—

Carl needed to find his dad.

Right now.

* * *

Daryl stepped back from Randall's corpse.

He had known Shane's story was muddied, but now the truth stared him right in the face.

—Randall had turned after someone broke his neck.

Shane had killed him without knowing that Randall would still come back.

"I don't get it." Glenn searched Randall's corpse for bite marks. "If he doesn't have any bites, why is he a walker? How is that possible?"

"I don't know, man." T-Dog said as he looked around them fretfully. "Something's not right here."

Daryl knew, but he had promised the Indian he wouldn't tell. Unfortunately, he couldn't keep that promise anymore. The situation had gotten out of hand and the others needed to know what they were dealing with—both the virus and Shane. The former deputy had a plan if he made all of them search the forest even knowing that Randall was dead.

It hit the hunter then—Shane was with Rick. _Alone_.

_Shit…_

"Come on." Daryl rearranged his crossbow in his arms, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. "Let's get back to the farm."

At this point, Daryl didn't know if the others had returned to the farm or not. If they hadn't, he wouldn't have to go search for them. But he didn't know if he'd be able to find the two officers. Not in this darkness. Finding Randall had been a stroke of luck and Daryl didn't believe he would get lucky a second time. Maybe if he got the Indian out here and the two of them combined their skills, maybe then he could trace them.

There was an electric current in the air.

The hunter had this ominous feeling that something bad was going to happen. All of this had been a set-up to what? Get Rick alone. And do what?

Daryl could think of only one thing and that was why he needed to move fast.

—There was no place for a civil war between them right now.

* * *

Both Samara and Andrea aimed their rifles once they saw three shadowed forms walking in the distance. Not fifteen minutes ago they heard two gunshots that was much too close for comfort and had all the occupants of the house on edge.

"Who is it?" Samara barked harshly, finger already on the trigger and ready to pull.

"It's us."

The women visibly deflated as half of the search party stepped into the illuminated view of the farmhouse. Daryl, T-Dog and Glenn looked dirty and tired and concerned.

"Where's Rick and Shane?" Samara looked the hunter directly in the eye.

"They ain't back?"

"No." That just made the marshal tense even further. The gunshots had been either Rick or Shane or both.

The hunter cursed under his breath as he hurried inside the house with the others in tow. As the marshal walked alongside him, he whispered for only her to hear. "We got a problem."

Samara bit the inside of her cheek as she wondered what happened out there. Whatever did, it had the hunter's teeth on edge.

The group jumped to their feet once they saw the trio of men and they wasted no time in assaulting them with questions.

"What happened out there? We heard shots." Lori asked as she looked over their dirtied up clothes.

"Did you find Randall?" Maggie asked as she crossed her arms in defense.

"Yeah, we did." Daryl responded as he gave the marshal a pointed look.

"Is he back in the shed?"

"He's a walker." Glenn responded as he shifted on his feet uncomfortably. "But the weird thing is he wasn't bit. His neck was broke."

The Native clenched her eyes shut as she realized her theory was true. Shane did kill Randall. Her focus turned to Daryl and she could see that he too came to the same conclusion.

"So he fought back." Lori tried to understand as that was the only explanation.

"No." Daryl shook his head slowly. "Shane and Randall's tracks were right on top of each other. And Shane ain't no tracker, so he didn't come up behind him. They were together."

"Wait…" Dale stepped forward as that rotted feeling associated with Shane came back in full force. "What are you sayin' exactly?"

Daryl stood silent as every pair of eyes was glued to him in need of answers. Normally, he would have snapped back and insulted someone, but right now he was thinking of the best course of action.

Blue eyes settled back on the Native.

"We need to find 'em." _Whichever was still alive._

The marshal already knew that. She had known from the moment she heard the gunshots, but she was worried of what she would find.

"And after that, we tell 'em about why Randall turned."

Samara paused before furrowing her brow. "This is not a good time for that."

"Tell us what?" Andrea asked as she watched the silent argument between the two trackers. Something told her that whatever happened with Randall had been bad. Bad enough that the marshal and the hunter kept hidden from them.

The group along with the Greene's felt a tension rise within the air. This whole situation was a disaster and it kept getting messier and messier.

Nobody got to ask further as Jimmy entered through the front door of the house, wild eyed and pale as a ghost. With a shaky finger he pointed behind him, and stuttered out one single word.

"L-Look."

Everyone stepped onto the porch to witness a nightmare straight out of a horror book.

Walkers.

Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred heading straight for the house.

Muted, they stood watching as the horde advanced slowly.

Samara felt her stomach plummet as her hearing dimmed to the point she could only hear her heavy, deep breathing. Her heart beat erratically with each second increasing in speed and Samara swore she could feel it climbing up into her throat and clogging it.

"We are so fucked…" Samara finally found her voice even as small as it was.

That seemed to spur the other to move as Hershel hissed to his elder daughter to kill all the lights in the house.

"Maybe they're just passing, like the herd on the highway." Glenn grasped at straws as he hopelessly watched the army of undead. "Should we just go inside?"

"Not unless there's a tunnel downstairs I don't know about." Daryl licked his dry lips. "A herd that size would rip the house down."

At this point, the man felt powerless. They had two people out there in the field and if they didn't do something quick they'll get mowed over by the swarm.

"Everyone..." Samara started as she took her rifle off her shoulder. "Do you remember what I said about running? I think it's time to do just _that_."

"What are you talkin' about?" T-Dog asked as he looked from the marshal to the others.

"In case shit hit the fan, I told the others to run for the highway jam." Samara then turned to the hunter with a wild determination. "Daryl, we have to leave. Right _now_."

The man cursed as he felt torn. There was no way in hell they could hide from that horde or fight it. They needed to go, but Shane and Rick—

"We need to find the others first."

"We don't even know where they—"

"Carl's gone!"

Both turned to see Lori run out of the house, scared out of her mind and teary eyed.

"H-He was upstairs." The dark-haired woman placed her hand over her heart. "I can't find him anymore. He's supposed to be upstairs. I'm not leaving without my boy!"

"We're not." Carol took a hold of Lori's shaking hand in a gesture of comfort. "We're gonna look again."

"Goddammit, woman!" Samara snapped without thinking, the stress finally getting to her. "Can't you keep track of your brat for one fucking second!?"

"Not now, Samara!" Andrea hissed harshly as she pushed her shoulder.

Lori didn't even retort as she just ran inside the house with Carol to look for her boy a second time. Maybe he was hiding and she overlooked it.

"You can go if you want."

Samara turned sharply on the old farmer as he loaded a shotgun rather calmly.

"You gonna take 'em all on?" Daryl asked in disbelief.

"We have guns. We have cars." Hershel overlooked the horde with a sense of purpose. He had told the marshal already that he won't be leaving. He won't give up his land without a fight. "This is my farm. I'll die here."

Samara remained in shock as she just heard the old man declare that he would rather die protecting an object than live to get his family to safety.

_What the fu—?_

"All right." Daryl sighed as he jumped over the railing onto the ground. "It's as good a night as any."

_Say what now?_

Samara's brain froze for a second, but once the cogs started spinning again, she ran after him angry beyond reason. "Are you fucking insane?!"

The woman caught him by the arm and forced him to face her. Daryl stopped, his eyes narrowing further.

"Do you want to die, hick?" She emphasized her point by gripping the front of his vest and shaking him back to reason. _The stupid bastard! Doesn't he understand that this is suicide? _"Do you want them to die?"

"Let go, Indian." He said coolly.

"We can't win. Not against that." She actually pleaded with him. Maybe if they had had an army of people, they might have stood a chance, but with less than fifteen was absolute lunacy. "Please, tell everyone to run to the highway. To safety."

Daryl's hands engulfed her own smaller ones and gently pried her fingers away from him. Samara's shoulders sagged in defeat as she saw no change in the man's resolve.

"We gotta try." He simply said.

Daryl wasn't a fool. He knew that the chances of them destroying the entire horde were slim, but he couldn't leave. Not without the entire group.

–Not without his people.

"You go. That was the plan, right?" Daryl let go of her as his harsh gaze softened. "Run."

Not waiting for an answer, he left the marshal behind to decide her own fate.

Samara watched as Daryl jumped on his motorcycle and led three cars headlong into the horde—Maggie was with Glenn in Shane's car, Jimmy and Dale in the RV and T-Dog and Andrea in the farm's blue truck.

The marshal gripped her hair harshly. _Fuck!_

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

What was she supposed to do? Her car was right there, ready and set for a whole week. She just needed to get to it. So why wasn't she moving?!

Gunshots soon rang out in the fields as Daryl and the others opened fire on the walkers. No matter how much they swerved the cars and drove over or shot at them, more and more kept coming out of the dark. They were doing nothing but trying to stop the Titanic from sinking with a bucket.

As Samara gaze stayed on the force, she noticed a growing light in the barn. And it was then that a burning walker walked out, limbs flailing.

—Someone set the barn on fire.

Was it Rick or Shane?

Fire consumed the wooden structure as it kept rising and rising and Samara could see it at the level of the high windows. Daryl's motorcycle approached the RV and whatever he spoke to Dale had the man head directly for the burning building.

Yelling got the marshal's attention on two figures on the barn roof, one adult and one child. They jumped onto the roof of the RV once it got within range but the car didn't drive away. Instead Samara heard Jimmy's pained screams as walkers tore into his flesh, eating his innards.

In the light of the burning fire, Samara could see that the adult was Rick. The sheriff was crouching over the roof of the RV and his hands were somewhere inside it, most likely at the window overlooking the small bathroom. The man rose to his feet bit by bit as he pulled another human being out of there—Dale.

As they wasted time in rescuing Dale, the RV got surrounded, leaving them without a way to reach the ground. Walkers clawed at and rocked the RV, desperately trying to get to the three warm bodies. Rick shot at as many walkers as he could, but he had barely any ammunition left.

Hershel's blue truck stopped near the RV and Andrea stepped out, shooting at the undead to catch their attention. It did the trick as the putrid crowd went after her as she was more accessible. Andrea ran as she led the walkers away from the trio and Samara could hear Dale's cries after the blonde. Rick forced the older man to descend the RV and run with his son into the more darker parts of the farm where Samara had no visibility.

The marshal almost jumped out of her skin when shotgun shots rang right near her. Looking over to her right, she saw Hershel opening fire on anything that approached to closely to the house. It was then that Samara realized that the walkers had spread out so vastly that they were almost upon them. She hadn't even noticed as she had been absorbed by the battle waged right in front of her.

Wasting no time, the Native picked up her rifle and started shooting alongside the farmer. Walker after walker fell under her gun, but it wasn't enough. They kept advancing.

—This was pointless. They just wasted ammunition on a never-ending tide.

"Hershel, we have to go!" Samara screamed at him, but the old farmer seemed possessed in his mission to eliminate the threats posed to his home. "Hershel! It's over!"

"No!" The man yelled in despair as he wouldn't acknowledge the truth.

Someone shouted after them—Lori.

"Hershel, Samara! We gotta get out of here!"

"Go!" Samara yelled back as she started backing away. If the farmer won't listen then he was lost.

And like that, the Native left him behind and ran after the women, shooting and avoiding the walkers that got too close. She could see Carol, Lori, Beth and Patricia ahead, but disaster befell them as a walker ambushed the two sisters and got a hold of Patricia. Beth screamed murder as she saw her sister get torn apart by more walkers, each biting and tearing into her flesh. The older sister gurgled blood as she still held her sister's hand in a vice grip, not willing to let go.

Witnessing the horror scene, Samara aimed and shot Patricia in the back of her sun-kissed head, ending her agonized pain.

Lori ran back for Beth and forcefully pulled the wailing girl with her, giving Samara one inconsolable look. The walkers continued with their devouring of Patricia as more and more toppled over the other to get to the still warm and juicy tissue.

Samara threw her now useless rifle and took out one of her handguns. She avoided the dog-pile of walkers as the blue truck stopped beside Lori and Beth. Lori pushed the blonde girl inside the car which was being driven by T-Dog.

"Get Carol!" Lori screamed at Samara and pointed towards the shed.

Looking over, Carol was being surrounded by walkers as she futilely waved the machete around to defend herself. With a grit of her teeth, Samara ran after her, shooting the walkers trying to attack her.

The older woman sobbed as she was saved from a gruesome death.

"Are you alright?!" Samara caught her by the arm, sweat pouring down her forehead in rivulets. Her back was starting to act up and her pain medication was in her car.

Carol nodded as she shook out of control. But once she raised her head, she sobbed louder. The way to the truck had been blocked by a wall of walkers. Even with Samara's guns they had no way of getting to them.

"Come on!" Samara bellowed as she grabbed the woman's hand and ran.

As they rounded up on the other side of the house, Samara's brain worked at a speed she wasn't capable of keeping up only in snippets. But the moment she heard her BMW roar to life all trains of thought ceased.

—Someone was driving her car.

They were leaving with her car and abandoning her here!

"Stop!" Samara waved her arms as she caught a glimpse of Rick behind the wheel. "Rick, you son of a bitch!"

"They left us!" Carol screamed as the abundance of tears blurred her vision.

Samara turned desperately around them to find a way out of this Inferno. There was only one car left—the Grimes family car—but it was cut off from them by more than a dozen walkers. Her rifle had ran out of ammo after she shot Patricia; her current handgun was rapidly becoming empty and she had two handguns with a capacity of fifteen rounds left and one of them with a silencer. And she wasn't going to waste it on the farm anymore.

"What're we gonna do?!" The buzzed-cut woman cried in misery as walkers surrounded them at every step.

The only thing they could was—

"The forest! We have to run into the forest!"

"No!" Carol tried to rip her hand away from the marshal's grip. She didn't want to step one foot inside that forest. Not where her daughter died. "We can't!"

"Stop fighting me!" Samara yelled angrily as Carol's antics were slowing them down.

"Shit!" The marshal screeched as the older woman imbedded her nails into her hand and scratched. Instinctively letting go, Samara watched as Carol ran as far away from her towards the dirt road. "Carol!"

_The stupid bitch is heading right into a group of walkers!_

Without thinking, Samara ran after her, shooting every walker that closed in on the other woman.

Bullet after bullet flew as the marshal created a safe enough path for the woman, but it wouldn't be enough. She was already at her second gun and had one left—the silenced one—and then it was down to the machete.

Panting, Samara felt like vomiting as the pain in her back heightened so extremely that she could barely see straight. Even the soreness in her stomach spread throughout her body, joining with the ache in her back. The marshal blinked rapidly to try and escape the daze and rapidly spinning vision, but it didn't help. With each step she was slowing down and the walkers behind her were gaining speed.

_Ah…_

She wasn't going to escape with her life this time.

But like a candle flame in the dark, Samara heard a rumble. Looking through the bodies of walkers, she saw Daryl driving down the road with his motorcycle.

"Daryl!"

* * *

The farm was gone.

Daryl gripped the handle bars of the bike as if his life depended on it. And in a way it did. He couldn't stop not for a moment as he didn't have any form of weapon on him anymore. His crossbow ran out of arrows and his guns out of ammo. He was left defenseless save for this bike.

The others had left each in whichever car they could find and Daryl had seen Andrea run into the forest chased by a dozen walkers. He didn't know who was still alive and who was dead, but he knew that he couldn't dwell on that right now. The only thing he could do was get to the highway jam where Samara had said to regroup.

"Daryl!"

By a stroke of luck, the man heard the shout over the growl of the motor and slowed down on the dirt road. He could see Carol running straight towards him and behind her a walker and Samara, limping rapidly with two more walkers right on her trail.

Daryl raised his gun and aimed at the walkers, but as he pulled the trigger nothing shot out of the barrel. He looked futilely at the gun as he remembered that he ran out of ammo some time ago, so he could do nothing but wait for one of the women to reach him.

–Only _one_. Because he had space on his bike just for one more.

His eyes widened in horror as a walker that had been chasing Carol finally caught up to her and grabbed her by her blouse. The woman screamed harshly as she tripped and tried to crawl away from the walker's capture, kicking the thing as hard as she could.

A furious snarl echoed out as Samara reached the walker and shot it repeatedly in the head, falling down atop it. Carol did not even blink as she rose to her feet and ran the short distance to Daryl.

It was like a slow motion picture, Daryl thought. He saw the two walkers gain in on the marshal, a breath away from her. She was too tired and too much in pain as she struggled to get to her feet.

_Thump._

One of them caught her by the shirt.

_Thump. Thump._

Her horror-struck eyes connected with his and it took a split of a second for him to see the realization of death in the Indian's eyes.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Samara turned with a gun in hand just as the first walker fell atop her.

"Sama—"

"Daryl!"

Carol's scream brought him out of his tunnel vision as she reached his bike and hopped onto the seat behind him. As Daryl returned his attention to the marshal, his heart sank.

—Both walkers were now atop her and she wasn't moving.

His stomach constricted into a ball of sickness.

She was dead.

Samara. Was. _Dead_.

"Daryl, please go!"

The hungry growl of a walker spurred him into action as walkers threatened to surround them. Fluidly, he flung the bike into high gear and sped out of the farm. There were walkers all around them, some even managing to graze their sides as the bike roared on the dirt road.

Daryl didn't even spare a glance back. What was there to see anymore? Before they fell atop the Indian, she had a gun in hand, but Daryl hadn't heard a single shot then and not even now as they distanced away from the farm.

The Native was dead, most likely now getting devoured by those two walkers.

There was a tight knot in his stomach as he numbly guided the bike through the stragglers. It made him feel guilty as he lived and the marshal didn't. Of all the people, she died? _Her_?

"_You know…on some fucked up level, I am going to miss them." Her hushed words paused the hunter in his work. Calm olive eyes traveled to Daryl's form as she watched the taut muscles in his back. "Even you." A small ironic smirk split her lips. "Are you going to miss me?"_

Daryl gritted his teeth as he thought on their last conversation—when she pleaded for him to leave the farm with the others.

…_Why didn't you run, you damn Indian?_

* * *

Daryl walked slowly over the small perimeter.

They had set up camp miles east of the farm for the night. Everyone was exhausted, physically and mentally. He had offered to take the watch as he couldn't sleep. The images of last night were something he couldn't shake off so easily.

—The Indian kept haunting his memories.

And he wasn't the only one. He knew Rick felt the same, probably more so than him. After all, he knew her better.

Looking over, he saw the sheriff keeping watch alongside him and he remembered the time they met back at the highway jam after the farm was overrun.

"_Where's the rest of us?" Glenn asked after he counted everyone present minus a few._

"_We're the only ones who made it so far." Rick said softly._

_Lori looked at him wide-eyed as she feared the answer. "Shane?"_

_Her husband stepped back as he shook his head, his gaze turned from her. After what happened between the two of them, the sheriff felt wary of divulging the showdown and Carl's implication in it. His son had shot and killed Shane after all. His wife will surely hate him for it._

"_What about Andrea?" Dale stepped forward as he looked for hope in the others. "Did anyone see what happened to her? She saved me and Rick and Carl, then I lost her."_

"_I saw her run into the woods." Daryl answered. "She was bein' chased by walkers."_

"_So she's not dead? We have to go back." Dale jogged towards the BMW, but T-Dog was the one to stop him. "Let go! We can't just leave her!"_

"_We can't go back. She's either somewhere else or she's dead." Rick laid it out strictly. There was no way anyone was stepping foot on that farm again. He had no intention of losing someone else. "There's no way to find her."_

"_So we're not even gonna look for her?" Dale practically yelled in despair._

_Rick's gaze felt steady on the older man. "We gotta keep movin'."_

_The sheriff then looked towards the BMW, he and his son, Hershel and Dale escaped from the farm with._

"_Samara…" The sheriff kept his voice to a neutral tone as he feared the answer. She wasn't here so she either escaped like Andrea or—_

"_She's dead."_

_The sheriff closed his eyes gravely as the news traveled throughout his body, shaking it to its core. He didn't want to believe this. Not _her_._

"_Are you sure?"_

"_Saw her fall with walkers atop her." Daryl spoke low, avoiding the sheriff's gaze. He still felt in shock even after the gruesome night had been over hours ago. "She didn't get up."_

"_Samara was saving me, that's why she…" Carol placed her hand on her neck. She felt like sobbing as she remembered the scene. "I didn't want to run into the forest like she said. I didn't want to go to the same place my Sophia died in. So I ran from her and she chased me, and I—"_

_The elder woman stopped as tears sprang out. She felt like it was her fault the marshal died._

_Rick's blue eyes seemed to darken as he could visibly see the marshal save Carol then go down, walkers tearing into her neck, killing her instantly._

_It reminded him of a bible verse. Something that went along with the strong always dying first as they protected the weak. But Samara looked after herself first and foremost, so why did she have to sacrifice herself for someone who would die within a day on her own?_

_Breathing in deeply, Rick tried to control his raging emotions. They had ruined her. Because of them, the marshal was dead. Just like she said they would one day cause her death._

_He felt like lashing out. Punching someone. Anything to escape this growing decayed feeling inside him. The only other person who understood him on a deeper level was gone._

—_His _friend_ was gone._

_He didn't have words for the internal storm he was experiencing at the moment._

_The man vaguely heard that Patricia and Jimmy had both perished in the attack._

"_What now?" His wife asked him worriedly. They were back at square one, on the road with barely any supplies._

_What else could they do but—_

"_Like I said, we keep movin' forward."_

After the highway, they had headed as far east as the cars could take them, but they were running low on gas. They had to ditch Hershel's truck after siphoning it for petrol as it only lagged them behind. The only cars left had been Shane's, Samara's and Daryl's bike.

After Rick had revealed to all of them the reason why Randall had turned without being bit, the group had ruptured even further. People had barely spoken to each other as they had ridden along the road. Everyone's nerves were stretched thin with this revelation atop the deceased family members and friends. Some even talked about splitting up and going their own way.

Everyone wanted to blame someone for the attack, for the deaths and for their situation. Some turned on Rick, like Carol did trying to make Daryl the leader. Right then, Rick had told them some hurtful truths—how Shane had died by his hands, how he did everything he possibly could to keep everyone safe even as he hadn't wanted this position in the first place.

If the people in the group wanted to stay, then there will be no democracy. No casting votes, just Rick making the decisions. He will not make the same mistakes again.

Daryl didn't care. As long as this group was still standing, as fractured as it was, he wasn't going to give up on it. Rick needed someone to lean on, to confide in, and Daryl was the only one left.

Daryl's hand reached his jean pocket, but froze. Inside it where two pictures he had found while rummaging through the Indian's belongings. One consisted of her and an older man, presumably her father, and another with her and a black man, who Daryl instantly recognized as her husband judging from the glimmering wedding bands. It hadn't been his intention to find anything personal of hers, just supplies useful to him and the group. And find he did, as Samara had loaded her car with food, water, medicine and gas to last her a week. In her death, she had left them with a chance to survive and Daryl didn't know if he should be grateful or remorseful.

He had taken the photos without letting anyone see. He didn't know why, it feeling more like a whim than anything. After an hour he had thrown them away, the guilt eating him from the inside as the marshal's smiling face was a constant reminder that he had left her behind.

—Not even ten minutes had passed and he picked them up again.

Daryl now kept them secure in his back pocket. After all their conversations, the hunter had come to the conclusion that the marshal wanted to die a lonely death, forgotten by time. She had nobody dear left, so there was no reason for her to be remembered. But Daryl couldn't accept that. She existed and she had been with them for two months. She had helped them in her own way, so she deserved to be remembered.

And the hunter knew that Grimes wouldn't forget her either. Not by a long shot.

—She deserved at least two people who gave a damn.

Daryl sighed. He didn't know what the future had in store for them and he hoped that they could catch a break because he knew that if another disaster befell them, then it was all over.

In a few hours a new day will begin and he hoped the morning didn't rise with a bloody sun.

* * *

As the sun set on the farm, an orange-red light basked the house and fields. Mother Nature continued on with its course as it remained unaffected by the disaster that had transpired at the farm.

What had once been a lively place full of people was now a shadow of the past.

The barn was left a charred skeleton, the RV a bloody mess and the grounds were splattered in various places with blood and entrails. A few stragglers had remained, losing touch with the horde and thus, having no direction to guide themselves with.

—The farm was dead.

Patricia. Jimmy. Shane.

They all remained in the same place they had died.

Samara.

She laid underneath two walkers, no indication that either of the trio had moved since last night.

Rustle.

_Groan. Hiss._

The two walkers were shoved to the side as the woman underneath jerkily rose to a sitting position. Another guttural groan resounded from the woman as she leaned forward and promptly puked her last breakfast out.

"Ughh…"

Samara spat the remaining of the accumulated saliva and sat, bleary-eyed and confused.

"Fuck…I pissed myself."

* * *

_**Foot Note:**_ So this is the penultimate chapter.

Woo-hoo. Samara isn't dead. How many of you thought she was?

I was actually going to leave the last part for the next chapter, but I didn't want to prolong your misery. How Samara survived will be explained in the final chapter, but I think you can guess how.

See you next time!


	24. We Walk Different Paths

**Note:** Uhhh…Last chapter.

This is the epilogue for 'Ring of Fire', so enjoy!

* * *

Olive eyes perused over the fields assessing threats. And from what she could see, only half a dozen stragglers were left on the farm grounds.

Inventory check: one machete, two empty handguns, one silenced gun with seven bullets left. No…six bullets left.

Samara stood up on unsure legs, contrasting her calmed breath. She needed to get rid of the stragglers to feel a measure of safety. Proceeding to the first one, she prepared herself to swing the machete, but as she approached the walker gave her no importance. It simply looked her way, sniffed and then went back to its slow shuffle.

Samara narrowed her eyes before letting her hands gradually fall to her sides. Having remained twelve hours underneath two dead corpses had given them a reason to not consider Samara a threat. The stench of those putrid bastards had imbedded itself into her skin giving her a shroud of invisibility.

With heavy steps, the marshal limped towards the house. She needed to be somewhere with four walls and a roof. To feel a small measure of safety. And the farmhouse was the closest source.

Stepping inside, she cut down the walker that was standing in front of the staircase. Not losing her step, Samara climbed the steps one at a time. Every time she lifted her foot, her back nerves sent painful signals towards her brain making her cringe. Something was terribly wrong with her body and she didn't have a doctor or a hospital on hand. The only thing she had was one forgotten painkiller that she had pocketed for later use.

Reaching the second floor, Samara slowly walked towards the bathroom where she quietly locked the door behind her. The chest gun holsters, along with her leg holster, machete and handguns came off as Samara settled them on the closed toilet seat. Taking off her cowboy boots and checkered shirt, Samara winced as she had to use the shower curtain rail to climb into the porcelain tub.

Sitting in the empty bathtub, Samara stared into the empty space, unmoving.

One minute. Five. Seventeen.

Samara exhaled chokingly. It all came crashing down.

She could vividly remember the horror she felt when the walker grabbed her from behind. The few seconds between her turning around and the first walker falling on her had given her just enough time to aim the silenced gun and shoot the walker in the head. The second undead had never even touched her as he became Samara's next target.

After that, time became a blur. Samara had gone in and out of consciousness as the pain had finally broken her. She didn't even remember when the second walker had fallen atop her, she just woke up with her two new 'buddies', lying in the dark. At first she had panicked, not knowing where she was or what was atop her, but soon calmed as another wave of dizziness overcame her—most likely a sunstroke—and passed out again. After that, she had woken up, overtly conscious of what happened and quietly listened to the dreadful sounds of the undead. Shaking uncontrollably, Samara listened and watched as some walkers stepped far too close to her hiding place. She had been ready to shoot them, but the walkers had merely passed her undisturbed. Samara couldn't even remember how many had done the same—walked or crawled near her, but never once giving her the attention.

Probably over three dozen or more.

Samara choked as she held onto her throat. _So many walkers…_There had been so _many_ walkers and the only protection she had had were two dead corpses covering her scent.

Fear didn't even begin to explain what she had felt.

The first tear fell. Then the second.

Samara broke beyond a doubt, her sobs coming in droves and she. Couldn't. Stop. Them.

Samara hugged herself tightly as she rocked silently in the bathtub. She tried desperately to quiet down but it only made her cry harder. Biting her fist, muting herself with the palm of her hand, hitting her head against the tiled wall—nothing worked.

The last two months came crashing down over her head and she couldn't contain it anymore. Her control went out the window as she realized that once again she narrowly escaped death. That she had remained twelve hours underneath two walkers to preserve her own life. That she had to listen to their gnawing teeth, their heaving breaths, their guttural groans and hungry hisses as she stood unmoving, praying to whatever gods were out there that they wouldn't notice her. That she was reduced to a small fearful child as she laid there. That she had to suffer half a day without painkillers and her body constantly hurting. That she had to go through the indignity of lying in a pool of her own urine.

But most of all, she cried because after everything, after every hardship and degradation, Samara lived to see another day.

Two months living with the Atlanta group had come to a gruesome end. She had lost Alistair, the small measure of home she had found here and the only people she had any attachment left to. She was once again alone to face the world, and while half of her felt relief, the other wanted nothing more than to find the group and be whole again.

But such a thing was now impossible. Too much time had passed and if the others listened to her advice and sought refuge at the highway, then they probably left a long time ago. Only wait as much as possible and if you get separated, you're on your own—this was what the marshal had told them. Samara was on her lonesome and, thus, she had to find her own way.

Wiping off the tears and quieting the sobs, Samara began to take the clothes off her body. She needed a distracter and cleaning her body was the only option at hand. Her hands reached the knobs of the faucet and turned the water on. Inhaling deeply, Samara let the cold shower wash down her body, cleansing her entirely. With furious strokes, she began scrubbing the grime and blood off her skin until it turned red and bled in several places. The smell was becoming an affront to her person and she wanted it off.

As she finished the long bath, Samara looked at the now ruined tub. Where it had been pearly white once, now it was a rusted brown color with crimson stripes.

_Well…it's not like anyone is going to use it anymore._

Stepping in front of the small mirror, Samara looked at herself as she numbly combed the tangles in her hair. She had lost weight again and her muscles and bones were even more prominent now. Her whole body was exhausted from lack of food, water and the coldness of the night. Even her eyes were bloodshot with prominent veins underneath as she hadn't slept in twenty hours.

Samara gave herself one last look before popping the last painkiller she had and leaving the bathroom, naked as the day she was born. She needed to find fresh clothes as she couldn't stand the sight of the destroyed ones, not even her cowboy boots.

Gun aimed, she cautiously walked towards the Greene sister's room. Everything that she had owned had been in that car, so she was left with borrowing clothes from the other women.

Lingerie, a pastel green T-shirt with a country band on it, a dark navy button-up, dark grey jeans and black army boots. Over everything she threw on a leather aviator jacket and a black cowboy hat from Maggie's belongings.

While this disaster had wrecked her old world, it gave her the chance of a new beginning. One that she took on wholeheartedly. Samara needed to get ready for the coming months and bawling her eyes out won't do.

Stuffing autumn and winter clothes inside two backpacks, Samara left the rooms with several other duffle bags. She searched all the rooms, packing anything useful for her. Downstairs, she hoarded as much canned food as there was left and bottled as many bottles of water as she could find.

Samara almost laughed in happiness as she found medicine in the old farmer's room, even some low grade painkillers among them. Unfortunately, she hadn't found any weapons, not even the gun bag.

Before leaving this house for good there was one thing left to do. This action wasn't born out of sentimental reason, but out of practicality and spite. Samara used Maggie's and Beth's lipstick and smeared 'Still alive' on the living room wall. Procuring a kitchen knife, she stabbed it into the thin wall of the house, right below the writing, and hanged her necklace off it. If any of the Atlanta group happened to come back here, then they would know Samara lived to tell the tale and she hoped Daryl and Carol and everyone else felt a shit-tone of guilt for leaving her for dead.

The Native had heavily debated about leaving her heirloom behind, but considering she had no heirs to give it too, it was pretty useless. Her father would turn in his grave if he could see her now, but it was time to let go of the life lived in comfort and relative safety.

It was time to stop moping about the past and focus on the now. Her family and husband were dead and they needed to be finally buried into her memories. The pictures she had hidden in her belongings had kept them alive in her mind, but Samara had no incentives anymore, so she was free of gloom.

Stepping out of the house with four full bags, Samara found the keys in Grimes's car ignition and popped the trunk open. Throwing the bags inside it, she overlooked the fields once more.

_Who died?_

Except for Jimmy and Patricia, the marshal wasn't aware of anyone else. Was Shane dead? Was Andrea?

Samara wondered if she had the time to find and deal with the remains. As callous as she was, the dead still merited some respect. They should be buried or at least cremated. Sadly, it was out of Samara's hands now as the stragglers caught on to her movements and were slowly shuffling towards her. The marshal wasted no time and ignited the motor of her car.

Speeding off the farm, Samara didn't even grace it with one last look.

The farm as well as the inhabitants of the house was a receding memory now. She did not want to remember them anymore. In Samara's book, they were a closed chapter and if she wanted to move on, she needed to forget them and concentrate only on herself.

Hitting the highway road, Samara swerved the car right and drove as far south as she could.

Just as she planned.

* * *

_Sniff. Sniff_.

Samara grimaced as she threw the jam jar away and placed the mask back over her nose. Barely anything in the small supermarket was edible, but the marshal persisted. After three weeks on the road, she was again running low on food and desperation was starting to get to her.

The small town she had found had just the necessary shops, but a handful of hunting ones. Samara came to the conclusion that the town must have made its money off hunting seasons. While rummaging througha hunting equipment store, Samara had found a lower face mask with the imprint of a skeleton's lower structure including nose, jaw and sharp animal teeth. She had thought it looked pretty notorious combined with her cowboy hat and dark circular sunglasses.

Samara paused as another wave of ache traveled up her back. Without pause, she popped an Oxy in her mouth and crushed it with her teeth. Two weeks ago she had found a small pharmacy with untouched products. Samara had thought that she had arrived in drug heaven and ever since, she had pretty much ingested all pain medication that she had brought along.

The marshal was pretty sure that she was building a slow addiction to them, but she didn't care. As long as she wasn't in pain, it was alright in Samara's book.

Pupils dilated as the bell at the front door signaled a new arrival. Samara sprung into action with her silenced gun as she made herself as small as possible against the aisle. Whoever it was was human judging from the low curse after the bell started ringing. They hadn't expected the shop to be that old-fashioned. And to be truthful, neither did Samara.

The intruder had a light step. They knew enough to be cautious of their surrounding as they walked slowly down the opposite aisle from Samara. The marshal rose to her feet and shadowed the person's footsteps, stepping each time they did.

Peeking over the row of shelves, Samara saw the back of a dreadlock styled woman. A bemused brow rose at the sight of the Japanese sword in the woman's dark skinned hand.

Machetes she understood, but medieval swords? That was a bit…comic book like.

Samara lost the curiosity and aimed the gun at the woman's head, approaching slowly as to not notify her of her presence. Once the muzzle of her silenced gun touched the back of her head, the other woman froze.

"Put that blade down. Slowly."

The unknown black woman peeked over her shoulder, stone faced.

"Now."

She heeded the marshal's order after the gun pressed harshly against her head. Samara places her foot on the blade and slid it away from both of them. The stranger raised her hands up at the marshal's next order.

"Are you alone or with others?"

The woman remained silent.

Having enough, Samara pushed the woman over the counter. Taking a hold of one of her arms and placing it behind her back, Samara twisted it to a painful degree making the woman hiss. The other arm was trapped between the counter and the stranger's body.

Patting her over for weapons with her free arm, Samara only found a few knives. There wasn't even a gun.

"Speak. Now."

Silence.

Enraged, Samara pulled the woman from the counter ready to deck her in the face, but instead she had to evade the knife swung at her eyes. The woman must have hidden some knives where she couldn't find them.

_The bitch's a bloody ninja!_

The sword-wielder tackled the marshal into the stall and they both fell to the floor, holding each other's wrist from reaching their goal—Samara tried to aim the gun to shoot her in the head while the stranger aimed to slit her throat.

Samara was winning ground as inch by inch the muzzle came closer to the stranger's temple, but the knee to her vagina had promptly stopped her advance.

Wide eyed, the marshal rolled over in pain.

_Fuck!_

As the other woman tried to reach her sword, Samara caught her by the leg in an attempt to drag her back. A slash across the cheek was her answer and the marshal let go once again. Retrieving her gun from the floor, Samara spun around ready to shoot the woman only to have the muzzle moved out of the way forcefully by the stranger. The small knife wielded by the black woman had found its new home in Samara's gun arm. Gritting her teeth, Samara wasted no time and head-butted the bitch. A few seconds was all it took for the stranger to pick up her bearings and catch Samara by the hair to deliver a swift falcon punch to her face.

Samara dropped her gun as she felt her cheek pulse in pain. Before the black woman reached her silenced gun, the Native jumped onto her back and grabbed her by her dreadlocks, pulling her head as far back as she could. The woman hissed, but soon groaned in pain as Samara smashed her face into the tiled floor. And again. And again.

As Samara made sure the ninja-woman was dazed, she brought her fist right into the woman's kidneys making the stranger hurl vomit all over the floor.

Climbing over the woman, Samara made a go after her gun to finish her once and for all, but she was once again deterred—someone wrapped a chain around her neck from behind and pulled. Someone other than the black woman was trying to kill her as the marshal was pulled off the now coughing and gasping sword-wielder.

The new person was trying to strangle her to death, but Samara, instead of clawing at her throat or her attacker; she threw her hands over her shoulder and caught the person by the jacket material on their shoulders. With all her power, the marshal pulled the other person to roll them over her back and slammed them onto the tiles.

Breathing harshly with the chain was still around her neck, Samara unsheathed one of her hunting knives and aimed straight for the choker's face. If it hadn't been for the small measure of sanity still present in her adrenaline infused body, she wouldn't have been able to stop the knife at the last second.

Samara's breath hitched as her brain froze.

—Wild-eyed she gazed at the angry face of Andrea.

"Andrea?" Her voice was gravely from unuse, but the marshal saw the unexpected surprise on the blonde's face at the mention of her name.

Samara never got to say another word as the back of her handgun collided with her forehead, making her see stars. Falling to the floor, Samara spat blood as the room spun with her. It seemed that the black woman had finally regained her senses and stepped back into the fight with Samara's gun in hand.

"Michonne, wait!"

The blonde had stopped the woman named Michonne from lodging a bullet straight into Samara's skull. The Native panted as she glared at the scowling woman sitting above her with _her_ gun aimed at her face. Not even a few seconds later, Andrea's shocked face entered her field of vision.

Cautiously, the blonde pulled the sunglasses along with the mask off of Samara's face and gasped.

"Oh my god…Samara…"

The marshal in question gave a weak smile as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

"Hey, Andrea. _Great_ to see you again."

* * *

_Hiss_.

Samara grinded her teeth on the leather belt as Andrea pulled the knife out of her arm. It had been imbedded rather deep as the handle touched her skin and Samara had to use something to block her jaw from breaking her teeth.

Amateur medical analysis: deep stab wound in her upper left arm, one bruised cheek and the other cut, one bruised neck which resulted in labored breathing, and one sore vagina.

All in all, Samara got off lightly.

"I'm so sorry, Samara." Andrea pressed a towel over the overflowing gash. "I didn't know it was you with that mask on."

Samara spat the belt out of her mouth. The coppery taste permeated every corner of her mouth making her cringe in distaste.

"It's alright, Andrea." Another globe of blood was expelled out of her mouth. "If you hadn't come along I would have killed your…_friend_."

The third woman, Michonne, had been nursing her injuries a distance away, but near enough for her to hear. A scoff resounded from her making Samara glare. The sword-wielder gave the marshal a pointed look before walking out of the small supermarket.

The injuries on Michonne were just as visible as the one's on Samara. A fractured nose, a concussion judging from the uncoordinated walk, and bruised kidneys most likely.

—The marshal wondered how Andrea crossed paths with the woman.

"I still can't believe you're here." Andrea threw the now bloodied towel away and opened a small first aid kit for sanitized alcohol, a thread and needle so she could stitch the wound. "I thought after everythin' that's happened I'd never see any of you again."

"Neither did I." Samara rested against the aisle as she prepared herself for the alcohol to hit the raw wound.

Pressing the palm of her hand harshly against her mouth, Samara screamed inside her mouth as Andrea poured the contents of the small bottle. Bright colored spots were the only thing the Native could see in front of her as Andrea began closing the wound.

Minutes passed until Samara successfully calmed herself down. Numbly, she watched as the needle slipped into her skin with sloppy precision. It was clear to her that the blonde wasn't used to this.

After the fight had settled over, Samara still remained in a daze as it was made clear that Andrea stood right in front of her. After the farm, she had never thought that she would lay eyes on the Atlanta group ever again. But here Andrea stood, alive and well and separated from the group just like her.

"Samara..." Andrea kept her eyes on her task as she addressed her. "Why aren't you with the others? I thought you had left with them."

"I got left behind." Samara shrugged seemingly indifferent. "I was trying to get Carol to escape into the forest, but the woman got hysterical and ran away from me. I had to save her from walkers, and in the end, I almost died. She got away on Daryl's bike and I ended up spending half a day under two dead walkers."

Halfway into her explanation Andrea had stopped stitching and gazed at the marshal in horror.

"Jesus…you stayed at the farm…" The image itself had a shiver crawl down her spine.

"I didn't have a choice. I was being chased by walkers and I passed out after I killed them. They fell atop me so their scent covered mine. At that moment, that was the safest place I could be in considering I couldn't run to save my life." The safest place is always in the eye of the storm, or so they say. "So, I just waited until the horde left."

Andrea exhaled slowly as she stared in a daze. She couldn't believe that someone actually survived in that chaos.

"Why didn't Daryl help you? Or Carol?" The blonde frowned in anger.

"Because they saw two walkers fall atop me and I didn't get up." She had been over this many times, but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth. "They probably thought I was dead."

"Those assholes…" Andrea spat as she continued in her task. "What happened after? You've been on the road this whole time?"

"Pretty much." Samara searched her jacket pocket and produced a lighter and cigarette. "I don't stay in one place too long anymore. I can't make that same mistake twice. At least until winter hits."

Rings of smoke floated above them as Samara again began watching the needle.

"What about you Andrea?" Smoke escaped her nostrils. "I saw you lure a group of walkers but then I lost sight of you."

The blonde heaved deeply. "Fuckin' Dale and Rick!" She growled as the needle went in her flesh more harshly making the marshal wince. "I save their asses and they just leave me behind! Run off to the house without even lookin' back. That's what I get for tryin' to help someone."

There was a deep anger within her. One that she had been carrying since that fateful night and the worst part was that she couldn't even give the two men a piece of her mind.

"I had to run in the forest." The horrid memory was still fresh in her mind. "There were too many walkers and they blocked all the paths back to the cars, so I panicked and ran in the only direction that was walker free."

"You didn't reach the highway then." Samara inhaled nicotine deeply into her lungs.

"Hell no. When the sun rose I was still runnin'." Her mood changed hastily from anger to a quiet gloom. "I ran the entire night with barely any weapons or sense of direction. I was so exhausted, I fell and I couldn't get up no more." That intense dread she had felt as those walkers closed in on her and the sense of hopelessness had almost broken her. "If it weren't for Michonne, I would've been dead."

Samara's piercing gaze turned to the door where the third woman left through. "You've been with her this whole time?"

Andrea nodded. "It was either I stay with her or I try to survive on my own with no food or weapons. I had no choice."

Finishing up the stitches, Andrea cut the thread and almost proudly glanced at her shoddy work. With a hiss, Samara slowly clothed herself back with her shirt and aviator jacket.

"If we ever see Dale and Rick again, I'm gonna beat the shit out of them." Andrea grumbled as she packed the first aid kit.

Samara touched her cut cheek—the blood had clotted over leaving harsh ridges.

"We had a plan—"

"Nobody said nothin' about leavin' people behind!" Andrea exploded. "The plan was for all of us to reach the highway and wait, but I guess we just ain't important enough! Christ, I lived with those people for almost five months, but it wasn't enough, was it?"

The Native watched as the blonde paced like a caged lioness, spouting curses and shouting indignities done to her. Samara watched this furious display with calm eyes and a half smoked cigarette. Andrea stopped her tirade once she noticed the marshal's uncommon quietness and eyed her with a narrowed gaze.

"Don't tell me you ain't angry." It seemed that the woman's composed exterior aggravated Andrea further. "You really okay with what they did? They didn't even check on you to see if you were actually dead. That woman didn't even help you. They—

"Of course I'm angry!" It was Samara's turn to explode as the deep seethed anger finally cracked the surface and poured continuously. "I feel that if I see them again I will break that bitch's bones!" There were so many things she would like to do to both Carol and Daryl, and even Rick for taking her car. "But it doesn't matter anymore. They're gone, we're here and still breathing. We need to move on."

Samara breathed in deeply as she composed herself. There was so much anger boiling just beneath the surface, but the marshal knew that given time, the storm will pass and she will forget. She had raged and hollered many times over these past few weeks and except for making her feel good for a few moments, it didn't resolve anything. Slowly, she learned to reign in her anger and bury it deep, but it seemed she still had some work to do.

"Where can we go?" Andrea raised her shoulders hopelessly. "No where's safe."

"You only figured that out now?" Samara barked at the blonde one last time. "Just keep movin'. Winter starts in two months. I need to find a secure enough place to last the cold, stock up on supplies—"

"You're not stickin' with us?" Andrea looked off put as she stared disbelievingly.

Samar blinked stupidly.

"You _want_ me to?" She hadn't expected the blonde to _want_ her around.

"Are you serious? Why the hell wouldn't I?"

"I'm not exactly a peach to be around."

"Neither is Michonne, but I stuck around for three weeks." The blonde said as it was the most obvious thing. "Strength in numbers, marshal. Don't you know that?"

Actually she did, but that didn't mean the marshal was going to listen to it. People had never been her forte, after all. But these three weeks, while liberating, have been hard, especially considering her still recuperating body. Samara needed backup, and if it had to be Andrea, then so be it.

At least she knew the blonde. That had to count for something.

"…Alright then. _We_ need to find a place for winter."

And once winter passed and she felt more able to survive on her own, Samara may just part ways with the two women.

"Where?"

"South. Go as far south as we can." That was where the Native was actually headed to when she stopped at this small convenience store. Packing up on supplies and anything that could help her get through the journey.

Now she was going to need a _lot_ more supplies. Enough for the three of them to get by and Samara had a feeling that the coming winter will hit them hard. The marshal may have spent the majority of her younger years outdoors, but she wasn't equipped to survive the bitter cold with no modern technology.

It will be a challenge and Samara hoped that all of them will survive it.

_Ah…_

Speaking of the _three_ of them—

"Andrea…You trust that woman?"

"Yeah." The blonde nodded determinedly. "Michonne is alright, Samara. The way I see it, she had no reason to help me back in the forest. She could have just walked by without even lookin' back once, but she didn't. I _owe_ her."

Even if the blonde trusted her, Samara liked to stay on the side of caution. She'll be watching this Michonne for the next few days or maybe weeks.

"Oh, yeah…" Andrea shifted on her feet, an unsure look about her. "You need to know something about Michonne. It hasn't been exactly just the two of us."

"You have others with you?

Andrea paused as she crossed her arms defensively.

"In a way."

* * *

Samara remained frozen as she gazed at the two armless and jawless walkers collared and chained outside the shop.

"Andrea…what the hell?"

The marshal's seen a lot of things in these past few months, but _this_…this was new.

"Michonne already had them when I met her. They cover her scent. It works, Samara. We can walk past walkers and they don't even bat an eyelash."

Samara cautiously approached the two walkers. Even without teeth and arms, she still tightly gripped the handle of her machete. A meter away from them and Samara still couldn't believe how tame they were. They're eyes had followed her as she approached, but soon their interest withered and they went back to quietly rocking on their feet.

Samara didn't have words for how strange this situation was.

"I get their purpose, but it's still…"

"Disturbing, I know." Andrea uncertainly laughed. "It's been three weeks and I'm _still_ not used to them. Their eyes follow you everywhere."

As Samara backed away from the two walkers, she saw Michonne watching them as she leaned against the small convenience store. She was still holding a piece of cloth to her bloodied nose, courteous of the Native.

"Andrea, do you mind if I talk to Michonne alone?"

"I—"

"Thanks."

Andrea rolled her eyes in annoyance as Samara didn't even wait for an answer as she walked towards the sword-wielder. But, the blonde respected the marshal's request and left the two women alone.

Samara stopped short of reaching Michonne, eyes assessing her shrewdly. Surprisingly to the Native, Michonne was observing her with the same intensity. It seemed there was something working in that head of hers unlike so many people she had encountered. Michonne was a fighter and apparently a silent one as she preferred to keep to the sidelines. There was a strong wall in those eyes of hers that not even Samara could see.

—The sword-wielder was someone not to be messed with.

Samara's interest piqued with each new discovery.

With slow, precise movements she fished out a cigarette causing Michonne to tense reflexively. Internally, Samara smirked, but she dared not show it out in the open. She knew she would lose any hopes of a conversation.

"Want one?" She offered one of her cancer sticks.

"Don't smoke." Michonne grumbled from behind the crimson cloth.

"Good choice." She lit her own before throwing the still burning matchstick. "Cigarettes will kill you."

Michonne gave her a pointed look. _As opposed to the undead?_

"I think I'm going to quit also." Smoke billowed from her nostrils like a tired out bull. "They're a bitch to find."

"Just say what you have to say."

Pause.

A smirk.

"Straight to the point then. I prefer it that way." Samara looked over the cuts and bruises and coagulated blood. "You alright?"

Michonne threw the soiled cloth as her bleeding stopped. "I'll live."

"Yeah, I will too." The Native pointed at her bandaged arm. "You know how to throw a punch."

The black woman said nothing as she indifferently gazed at the result of their fight. Samara swore that she saw a hint of pride in those dark eyes but it might be just the fighter's concussion reflecting. The marshal did bash her head repeatedly, it is to be expected.

"I'm going to stick around with you two." Samara proclaimed her intentions. "I don't know how long I'll be here, but I'm no burden. Andrea can vouch for me." Her dark eyebrows rose. "Got a problem with that?

The woman paused long enough to look the marshal up and down, no hint of what she was thinking. Finally, she shrugged as she picked at the crust on her chin. "As long as you don't create any, I have nothing to say."

"Fine with me, but there is something you need to understand." Samara needed to establish this. After the farm, she had been without human contact and little to no faith in others. "I'm low on trust these days and I don't know you. But Andrea trusts you and I'm _willing_ to give you a chance. But…" Samara stepped close enough that she breached the woman's personal bubble. There was a dangerous intensity to her and she wanted the warrior to know she wasn't playing around, and from Michonne's narrowed glare it seemed she had all her attention. "You try to do anything I perceive as threatening to my person or Andrea's, I will kill you without a second thought."

Michonne took the initiative as she closed the gap between them, their breaths intermingling.

"…Duly noted."

Samara felt the tension between them like an electric current. They mirrored two predators circling each other, waiting for the moment to pounce and rip each other's throat out with their bare teeth.

"You know, Andrea told me about you when we were traveling." Michonne said as didn't break eye contact not even for a second. "From what I understood, _you_ are the one that should follow that particular advice. You try to put my life in danger, I won't hesitate to stab you and leave you for dead."

_Oh…_

_Oh, I like you._

"I guess we both understand each other." Samara said lightly as she took a step back, their pissing contest over.

"I guess we do." Michonne mirrored the woman as she leaned back against the wall.

Sidestepping the fighter, the marshal had every intention to enter the store when Michonne's pet walkers came to mind.

"One last thing." Samara stared in quiet wonder at the dark woman. "How did you come up with the idea to use those walkers as escorts? Chopping off their arms and jaw is something I never thought of. Did it just occur to you one day and tried it on the nearest walker or…?"

She really wanted to know how this batshit crazy idea came to the forefront of the woman's mind.

"Walkers don't attack each other." She shrugged nonchalantly. "I thought if I had Mike and Terry with me, the others won't attack me either. I was right."

A few seconds passed in silence.

"…You named them?" Samara said slowly as she tried to wrap her mind around 'Mike' and 'Terry'.

"No."

The realization hit her like a two-story train. The sword-wielder had known those two men _before_ the virus and she—

_Ah…_

_I guess I'll have to sleep with one eye open after all._

Samara inhaled the last of her cigarette before throwing it onto Mike or Terry. They didn't seem to mind as they didn't even notice the lit filter. "While your two friends creep me the fuck out, I understand their use. Inventive, but unsettling."

"I'll take the first watch, then I'll wake Andrea in five hours." Samara rasped as she watched the orange and red sky. Night will settle in about half an hour and Samara vaguely mused that she should have been holed up somewhere for the sleeping hours by now.

"See you in the morning, Michonne."

The woman simply grunted in return.

* * *

With the rise of the sun, came the departure of the three women along with the two walkers. Outside of the shop, they stood in the middle of the road all packed and ready, but unsure of which direction they should take.

—They literally stood at a crossroad.

Samara huffed as she wished she had her car, but the damn thing ran out of fuel and there had been no gasoline in sight for miles. The marshal had been stuck to walking for the past four days and she had to leave some of her things behind as they slowed her down.

"Well?" Michonne asked as she pulled the two walkers along. "Which way?"

Olive eyes turned opposite sides of the street. Left meant going north and right, south. Samara had already established her route and she wasn't about to derail. The coast would do them good, and if not, they'll leave the state.

_Damn_, Samara sighed. She had people with her again. The marshal needed to accustom herself to the idea that it wasn't all about her now. She had others that would depend on her and Samara wasn't sure she could accomplish it. If it came down to life or death, the marshal may just jump ship. Andrea was an alright person, and Samara liked her enough not to dump her at the first sight of danger, but it may not be enough.

—Number one in the marshal's book was still herself.

But she'll try.

"Samara…?"

The Native closed her eyes as a deep sigh left her lungs.

Who would have thought that her day would start like this? That circumstance or fate would bring the three of them together?

It was now or never.

Samara opened her eyes, determined to live another day.

She took the first step.

* * *

Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle, 'Ring of Fire' is actually finished!

After 2 grueling years of writer's block, no motivation, and general laziness, I finally finished the story!

Huzzah!

I gotta thank you all dear readers for sticking around for so long and giving me the motivation to write forward. The ones that have been from the start—you guys are the best! Thanks for being patient with my chaotic writing and not abandoning the story and for the heart-warming reviews. They always made my day!

Now I'm gonna start writing for the third story which will be called '**Folsom Prison Blues'** (I know, rather obvious. I'm a genius!). I hope you guys will stick around to read Samara's new adventures in the third story.

I don't know when I will post the first chapter, but be patient, it will come.

See you in the next story and have a great summer!


	25. Author Note

For anyone interested, I posted the first chapter of the third story. Check out 'Folsom Prison Blues'.


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